Exposed to the pitiless pelting of the snow-storm, whilst the damsels jeered them at advantage from the cas.e.m.e.nt, they were told that no lock could be turned, no bolt withdrawn, until one amongst their party (himself a guest and a bachelor) could guess the name of the joint roasting upon the spit.

"And what guerdon," inquired Shakespeare, "to him who guesseth the same?"

"The best portion of the joint," said Dame Hathaway, "the first draught from the cider with the toast and hissing crab in it, and a kiss from the comeliest la.s.s in the company."

"The latter reward, then, at least, I claim," said Shakespeare; "for an you have not spitted the chine to-night, I would I might never see a porker again."

The scream of laughter with which this was received, (the withdrawal of the bolts, and the rush of the la.s.ses to hide themselves from the penalty incurred), proclaimed that the guesser had made a lucky hit; and Shakespeare, in right of his guess, entered first to claim and obtain the reward.

Our readers need scarcely be informed that the handsome daughter of the host was the maiden sought for and selected; and that Anne Hathaway received on this night the first kiss from William Shakespeare.

In the games which were to follow this ceremony, the more mirth displayed was superst.i.tiously imagined to give greater promise of a full apple season that year, and accordingly, fast and furious grew the fun.

If we were to say that young Shakespeare entered into these revels with feelings of unmingled enjoyment, we should indeed belie him.

As he looked upon the joyous faces around him, he felt delighted at the scene; and as his eye occasionally met that of the handsome Anne, he certainly at each glance felt more and more struck with her beauty; yet, still the remembrance of Charlotte Clopton, and the dear friends he had lost, over and anon "stopped the career of laughter with a sigh," and he, at such moments, felt almost unfitted for the scene.

There was, however, a charm to one of his disposition in these old wild rites and superst.i.tions; and, as after midnight the revellers sat round the hearth, and each one was called upon for the tale of grammarie, the ghost story, or the fairy tale, he at length gave himself up to the enjoyment of the hour and season.

The peasantry of our times have scarce an idea of the enjoyment consequent upon the old creeds and superst.i.tions of their forefathers.

Their dispositions are soured, their lives squalid, their style brutal, and in comparison to the good old English peasant, the jovial hearty yeoman of Elizabeth's day, they are a miserable race. The innocence of the old age is fled, and 'tis now all driving harshness, and hard selfish utilitarianism.

Our fairy creed, amongst other things of more moment, and which was wont to be so cherished amongst the superst.i.tions of the peasantry, is gone from their memories.

Not a sprite is left to skim the cream from the bowl,--not a silver piece is now ever lent to the _favoured_ maiden, _without the rate of interest_, and found by her at early dawn.

Puck and Robin Goodfellow, and all their elfin throng, _have fled ever_ from the scene. At the period of our story, however, these imaginary beings held a prominent place in the minds of our rural populations.

Nay, so firmly was the existence of these _elfins of power_ believed in, and so much influence were they supposed to have over mortals _for good or ill_, that many an old crone spoke with bated breath when she named the merry or mischievous pranks of Robin Goodfellow. Many a bold youth glanced with eye of fear at the acknowledged haunt of the fay in the forest glade, and many a maiden held the household sprite in religious awe, as she swept her kitchen at early dawn.

That such feelings and superst.i.tions were idle and ridiculous (amongst the bold peasantry of England in a former age) is true. Still, they gave a charm to each shadowy grove and unfrequented wood, and caused an interest in the different wild scenes of beauty where the elfin crew, "those merry wanderers of the night," were wont to hold their moonlight revels, and dance their ringlets to the whistling wind, which to our own times is unknown.

The more noisy sports of the night had finished. The party, nothing loth, for even pleasure is fatiguing, were now seated round the blazing hearth. To noise and loud laughter succeeded the cough of the crone--the saw of the old man's tale--the tale "of woeful ages long ago betide,"

and the chirp of the cricket; whilst the ruddy glow of the fire was reflected upon the faces and forms of tho listeners sitting around. The maidens, too, crept more closely to their admiring swains, as they glanced fearfully behind during the progress of the tale; more than one kiss was taken on the sly, by way of a.s.surance against the spectre. The last pipkin of good liquor simmered upon the hearth, and, in short, it was now the very "sweet o' the night."

To Shakespeare this was a delightful moment. His mind seized upon the secret feelings of the a.s.semblage. He saw them in their ignorance and superst.i.tion: and though conscious of his own superiority over the rude throng, "sitting 'mongst men like a descended G.o.d,"--nay, in after days, remembering these meetings and the feelings they had engendered, he founded an elfin world of his own on the traditions of the peasantry, and clothed them in the ever-living flowers of his own exuberant fancy.

Yes, he who was to astonish the universal world, sat in that cottage like one lost in a dream--a dream which these simple superst.i.tions had conjured up. The snow-storm still rattled on the cas.e.m.e.nt, the fire grew dim on the hearth, the room darkened down, the wind whistled without, and sounded drear amongst the mossed trees in old Hathaway's orchard, as he listened, and, as his arm stole round the waist of the sweet Anne, he forgot his recent troubles, and already felt himself half in love, whilst the tale and the song still went on.

That gentle and una.s.suming mortal was the last person to presume upon his own feelings and knowledge; he felt pleased and delighted with the company he was thrown amongst, and extracted amus.e.m.e.nt and instruction from the veriest clod-pate there. Perhaps the enjoyment of the circle was the more perfect, too, from the growing storm, which as it rattled sharply against the cas.e.m.e.nts, added to the comfort within, by the apparent discomfort without.

Remembrance lingers o'er such scenes, and the lapse of time gives them an interest which at the period they scarcely seemed to possess. Yes, time hallows in after days the scene and hour, and softens the remembrance of it even as age softens the touches of a picture.

"Ugh-ugh," coughed the old grandsire, when called upon for his story.

"There have been many tales told of Robin Goodfellow in my young days, an I could but remember them. Nay, I can recollect myself sad pranks he used to play. Both him and Hobgoblin, as we used to call t'other sprite.

In those days the witches were more plentiful than now, though their evil deeds are rife enow at all times--G.o.d 'ild us; but even the witches themselves were no more terrible than was Robin and his rout. Ma.s.s, I wish I could remember one half of the merry jests, mad pranks, and mischiefs he used to do."

"Nay, grandsire," said Anne Hathaway, "but this Robin doth no harm now, except it to be to knaves and queans, as he is Oberon's own son, so his royal father hath enjoined him not to harm the good and thrifty."

"Of a verity," said the elder Hathaway, "such is the case in some sort.

Nevertheless, Anne, in my time, sad pranks have been played in the night season by Robin."

"Aye, and as many good turns done too by him in mine," said old dame Hathaway. "What, hath not the elf oft-times ground the malt, swept clean the house, and washed all the children's faces in the night?"

"Aye," said the other, "and pinched the maids black and blue for laziness; and even carried them out fast asleep into the green meadows in the night, and led poor wayfarers out of the way to perish in some deep wash."[5]

[Footnote 5: All these were popular beliefs.]

"Well, well," said Master Hathaway, "cleanliness and thrift, and a good hunk of bread in one's pouch, will do much; not only to keep off the elf, but to keep one from hungering in the quagmire, for what saith the rhyme."[6]

[Footnote 6: Clobie's "Divine Glimpses." I adopt these lines because they allude to the curious old opinion, that bread carried about the person was a charm against tricks of Robin Goodfellow, though they bear date 1659.]

"Thy fairy elves who thee mislead with stories Into the mire, then at thy folly smile, Yea, clap their hands for joy. Were I used so; I should shake hands with them, and turn their foe.

Old country folks, who pixie leading fear, Bear bread about them to prevent that harm!"

"Come, tell us, grandsire," said Anne, "how you met the fairies coming one night from Monkspath."

"Gad-a-mercy, la.s.s, I had almost forgotten all about it," said the old host, who indeed had most likely dreamt the adventure one night in his cups, and then related it till he himself believed it was a fact. "Why, you see, when I was a yonker, there were terrible deeds done in England.

We didn't live then so peaceable-like, as we do now, under our blessed Queen Elizabeth. A man's life in those days warn't thought o' so much value as in ourn; by the same token, stabbing, smashing, hanging, and heading, and all sorts of wild work, were the order of the day,--more the pity. We hadn't then either such goodly dwellings, at least so many on 'em. Men were men then, and hadn't such luxuries as now. Ugh-ugh, Gad-a-mercy! I have seen the time when we used to sleep o' nights in the open fields as comfortably as under a roof. Nay, we hadn't such beds either then. A shake-down of the fern, or a clean bed of straw, with a log of wood for the head, was enow for most folks. I struck a good strike for Harry at Bosworth Field what time old Shakespeare----"

"Well, well," interrupted John Hathaway, "Bosworth bye and bye. The fairy story now, father."

"Nay, I war only going to say that yonder lad's grandfather (old Shakespeare of Stratford) could have borne me out, had he been alive, since he war at the battle of Bosworth too. Both he and I were together, jammed in amongst the spearmen, when King Richard pressed up on his white horse, and nearly struck young Richmond down. Ma.s.s, he were a fierce devil that day, and raged like a fiend. Richmond, I remember, bore back, as well as he might, an Richard had not been beaten off by the good knights around, the hot king had fairly brained him. Two I saw him fell with my own eyes ere he was forced away. Ah, he were a goodly sight to look on that day; and if deeds of daring and good soldiership could ha gotten the day, Richard had had it. He wore his crown upon his helmet, I remember, and (albins men liked him not) by my fay, he looked a king. No man that lived and beheld him but saw that."

"But the fairies, grandsire, the fairies?" said Anne.

"Well, well; bide a bit. Where war I? Ah, I see. I had a mad horse in Shottery--what time I came back from Leicestershire--and I would fain have sold him; so I e'en rode him along with some other youngsters to Kenilworth Green, where there war a wake holden underneath the abbey walls. Folks spoke darkly of old Kenilworth then. Now I'm told there be rare new buildings reared up there."

"There are," said Ralph Coulter. "A fine new castle hath been built by the Earl, glorious to look on, and called Leicester's Buildings, and ornamented, that it would do you good to look on 'em."

"Ah," said the elder Hathaway, "times are changed hugely. At the time I speak of old Clinton's Tower was ornamented and hung with the bodies of caitiffs, traitors, and outlaws; for the whole country round was full of disturbance, famine, and war. Howbeit, as I was saying, I went to Kenilworth to sell my sorrel nag; but I couldn't do so. So after I had taken a draught at the Leicester Arms there, I rode away to a relation I had at Monkspath. Travelling was very unsafe then, as you may believe--worse than now-a-days--and I hastened on to get through the woods before nightfall; and when I had got within about a mile of Monkspath, I saw a man, just as it began to grow twilight, coming towards me. He was dressed in a bright green doublet, and either my eyes deceived me, or the good liquor of the hostel made me see double, but he had a sort of _familiar_ flitting at his back. He was very small in make and height, and wore a bright golden bugle at his waist. My horse stopped of himself as the little man came up, and seemed all of a tremble, and wouldn't pa.s.s him nohow; so I dismounted, and tried to lead him past. But it wur all one; the horse wur fixed as firm as one of the old oaks beside us. 'Will you sell that brute?' said the little hunter.

''Tis what I wish,' I answered. 'It is very ugly: is it a cow or a horse?' said the little man. 'He was a horse a minute ago,' I answered; 'but now he seems turned to stone: I can't make him go, no wise.' 'My people have got him fast,' said the little man; 'he can't go. What do you ask for him?' inquired the little wretch. 'Fifteen pieces,' I said.

'There's thirty,' said the little man. 'Now stand aside whilst I mount.'

So saying, the little gentleman gave me the thirty pieces, and got upon the horse. No sooner had he done so than the beast went mad outright, I thought. He flew about, capered, and kicked out his heels, as if a flame of fire had lighted on his crupper. I ran to get out of the way, for fear of being struck, and when I turned, lo, horse and man were clean gone--sink into the earth as it were, and vanished, leaving me in the greatest of terror and confusion; whilst a wild and beautiful strain--a sort of hollow winding note of a bugle--seemed to pa.s.s through the air."

"Strange," said several of the listeners. "Was it not?"

"As soon as I had a little recovered myself," continued the quaint old man, "I hastened on to Monkspath, and sought my relation. He took me to an old monk belonging to the abbey beside the castle, to whom I told the story, and asked his advice about the money, and whether I might use it.

The monk gave me leave to use one-half the money, provided I gave him t'

other half; 'for,' said he, 'as you in no way circ.u.mvented or endeavoured to cheat the buyer, be he witch, devil, or fairy, you are fully ent.i.tled to what you asked. The other fifteen pieces,' said he, 'I will lay up in store for the use of our abbey.' On this a.s.surance I was well satisfied, so I hastened to get out the purse the little gentleman had given me; but the worst of it all was that no purse could I find; my pocket was empty, my purse gone, and the monk rated at me for a knave, whilst my relation laughed at me for a fool."

"He, he, he--ugh--O dear--O dear!"

"And the horse," said Anne--"the horse? you forgot the horse, grandfather."

"The horse--oh, ah, true enough--the horse. Why I found him, on my return home here, grazing quietly in the orchard, with his saddle turned under his belly, and covered with mud and mire, as if he had been drawn through all the mosses and sloughs between this and Coventry."

"And you was not at all fl.u.s.tered that night?" said Shakespeare. "Pardon the question, But I thought the little man in green might have treated you to an extra cup."

"Body o' me,--what I drunk! Not a whit. I had had just enough to make me all right. I'd a drunk about as much that night as I have to-night, or perhaps a quart more."