"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.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

THE FLIGHT TO LONDON.

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 pa.s.sage 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 covetous To 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 horns Should last him during life."

"Ah, a very simple lad, and a wilful. Had it not been for these things--these sc.r.a.ps 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 a.s.sisted 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 circ.u.mstance 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 imperishable _eclat_ to 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, if _deserved_, 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.

1311.

PIERS GAVESTON, EARL OF CORNWALL, BEHEADED.

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 a.s.sembled thousands, "all furnished, all in arms." In thought he followed the proud baron in all his stirring career. Knight and esquire and va.s.sal, 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."

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 countenance _once 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 a.s.surance 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 crow Wing'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 a.s.sembled 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 partic.i.p.ation 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, pa.s.sed 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 a.s.s."

Pa.s.sing 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 a.s.semblage 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 a.s.serted 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 pa.s.s 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 sort _so_ to pa.s.s 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 c.o.c.k."

Accordingly, the morning broke as Shakespeare brushed the dew from the gra.s.s 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 ma.s.sive 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."

[Footnote 18: The Earl, besides other things, had represented Arion on a dolphin, with rare music, whilst fireworks were seen in the air.

Shakespeare, more than once, alludes to Arion on a dolphin's back. Might not these things have made early impression upon his mind?]

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, n.o.ble 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 duty She read as much, as from the rattling tongue Of 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 Caesar, (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 gla.s.sy 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."