"That likes me somewhat better," said Teazle, "and I can venture to predict some good to accrue therefrom. Drake is the man to make the settlements smoke for it. He will burn, sack, and destroy all along the Spanish main, whilst the other will but make a sort of harnessed masque through the Low Countries. Such is my poor opinion, and time will prove in how much it is correct. So fill a cup to Sir Francis Drake, another for our gracious Queen, and one more for Stratford town. Huzza! huzza!

huzza!"

After this loyal outbreak there was a short pause. This was at last broken by neighbour Dismal, who (albeit he drank his quantum at these meetings) seldom spoke much, and when he did so generally threw a gloom over the whole a.s.semblage. He always had, however, his _one say_, which was a sort of concentration of the worst piece of news he could collect for the nonce. And as he was a man of undoubted veracity, unless he was pretty well a.s.sured of the truth of what he uttered, he never uttered it at all.

This usually gave his _one wisdom_ a most startling air of gloom and horror, and when he rose to speak, or even coughed his preliminary ahem, he was honoured by the most startling silence. On the present occasion he prepared to broach the subject matter with peculiar solemnity, actually rising from his seat, and, as he steadied himself with both hands upon the table, delivering himself, somewhat after the following lively fashion.

"Neighbours all," he said, "I have listened to the discussion of the foregoing matter with considerable interest. Our good neighbour, Teazle, hath handled the subject of the proposed expedition in very able style.

He hath been replied to quite as cleverly by my learned and worthy Fellow-townsman, Cramboy. Such discussions are, however, at the present moment, methinks, better left to those whom they most concern, inasmuch as subjects of nearer interest to _ourselves_, it doth appear to me, more nearly concern _ourselves_. Neighbours, I know I have been accused of being a kill joy, a melancholy man. Some call me Goodman Death: and the little boys hoot at me, as I walk at night, and say, 'There goeth Goodman Bones.' Nevertheless, I have been merry twice or once ere now. I was merry on the day I married Mistress Dismal, and I was merry the day I buried her. I was also merry when my father died, and left me in possession of his business. But I cannot say I am merry just at this time. Neighbours and jovial friends, I will conclude my speech briefly and heartily. By the same token, I wish you all your healths, and, at the same time, hope we may some of us meet here again next week _well_ and _happy_. How far we are likely to do so is another matter, and of that you will be better able to judge when I tell you that The Plague is in Stratford-upon-Avon at the present moment!"

CHAPTER X.

THE CHURCHYARD OF STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.

After young Shakespeare had safely deposited Goodman Doubletongue at his own door, and left him in charge of the good housewife, he turned his steps towards the Falcon, with the intent of rejoining his father there, and hearing the news of the town; for the son and sire were upon the delightful terms we sometimes, though not often, may observe between parent and child.

In both the elements of high character were so mixed that there could be no drawback to their love: they were more like companions of the same age than father and son. The same tastes, the same pursuits, the same high spirit and honourable feelings pervaded both.

Certes, the mind of one was of a far more extraordinary character than that of the other, but that in no degree lessened the feeling of respect and love young Shakespeare felt for his father, and that father's example and influence helped to form the man.

Always the creature of impulse, the youth, after conveying Master Doubletongue home, as he neared the Falcon, suddenly resolved to turn his steps in another direction; and, in place of listening, in the hot sanded parlour of the hostel, to the discussions of the Stratford wise-acres, whilst he felt the influence of the balmy breeze of night upon his cheek, he pa.s.sed the hostel and strolled towards the outskirts of the town. He felt indeed that the hour was more fitted for communion with his own thoughts than listening to the ridiculous dogmas and politics of the goodly fellowship of the Falcon.

Since his visit to Clopton a new scene had opened to him, and his feelings had become somewhat changed. He had beheld, nay, become intimately acquainted with a being of a superior order to any he had yet met with, and in the lovely and amiable Charlotte Clopton he had found that perfect specimen of female excellence which his imagination had, even at this early period of his life, loved to picture. Nay, perhaps, had he not in youth thus beheld some such bright excellence--some such reality of his conceptions--we might have wanted those delineations of grace and purity, those fairest flowers of perfect excellence--the Viola, Miranda, Desdemona, Juliet, and the sweetest Imogene of his maturer years.

To see and to feel the influence of companionship even for a couple of days with the fair Charlotte, so soft in manner, so fair in form and feature, so anxious to express her feelings of grat.i.tude for service rendered, and not to love her, was impossible. And during his visit the bright face of the young lad might have been observed beaming with admiration and affectionate regard upon Charlotte as she sang and accompanied herself upon the spinnet, and which, had it been noticed by her betrothed, might have perhaps caused some sparks of jealousy and uneasiness.

It was lucky, however, in young Shakespeare's case, that the great mind of the youth came to his aid in this situation, and whilst in company with her of whom even a previous glance had called forth his admiration.

During his visit he had also comprehended the politics of the family he was introduced amongst. He beheld the thorough gentleman, the confiding honourable old cavalier, the knight _sans peur et sans reproche_, in Sir Hugh Clopton. He saw the youthful esquire, the l.u.s.ty bachelor, the free open-hearted, brave, and devoted servant, the lover, whose whole soul and every thought were upon his fair mistress, in Walter Arderne; whilst in that cunningest pattern of excelling nature, the lovely Charlotte, he saw one far removed from his own sphere of life. So much so, indeed, that "it were all one, that he should love some bright particular star,"

"and think to wed it," she was so much above him. So thought the modest youth. And yet again it was easy for him also to observe that the strong affection of the lady's suitor was unrequited, and his feelings unreturned, save by those of esteem and friendship. Under these circ.u.mstances, we say, the strong sense of the youth came to his aid, and, if it did not hinder him from falling desperately in love, it somewhat curbed his feelings, and hindered him from discovering them to the object of his admiration. He felt the barb of the arrow rankle in his heart; but his pride and proper feeling helped him to subdue, and conceal the smart. So true it is that--

"As in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all."

We fear it must be acknowledged that the youthful poet, at this period of his life, was of a most untamed and wandering disposition; that his life and his employments were rather desultory; and that when once his steps turned towards the wild scenery which so abounded around his native town, all was forgotten of home duties, and engagements pertaining thereto.

This must, however, be excused in one whose mind was of so extraordinary a character.

Amongst other haunts which young Shakespeare loved to frequent at times, and even when the shadows of night gave a more solemn feeling to its precincts, was the churchyard of his native town. And perhaps those who have lingered, and looked upon that sweet scene during night's silent reign, whilst the moon has silvered the tops of the surrounding trees, and the waters of the Avon mirrored the beautiful structure on its banks, will better understand the feelings of young Shakespeare in such a place. Things more than mortal seem to steal upon the heart, and thoughts of early and shadowy recollection to haunt the mind.

Let those who have not visited this locality at "the witching hour,"

take a stroll into the ancient churchyard of Stratford. Let them feel the influence of the man everywhere around them, and imagine him at such a time. Let them look up at those demoniac heads which the cunning architects of the Norman period have carved on every coigne of vantage, together with the shadowy grandeur of the walls and b.u.t.tresses.

Let them glance over the verdant mounds and the mossy tombstones of the silent tenants around, and then ask themselves what were the thoughts engendered in such locality? Have they not some dark and shadowy conceptions of Elsineur? Doth not the postern of the old churchyard wall open to admit the Monkish procession for the obsequies of the fair Ophelia, with all the pomp and circ.u.mstance of the times? Do they not see before them the whole scene, and hear the words of the distracted Laertes as he stands beside the open grave of his sister:--

"Lay her i' the earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A minist'ring angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling."

Or, in that moonlight scene of beauty, and whilst the reverential awe it engenders steals upon the heart, doth not some remembrance of Juliet's tomb, the hour, and the deeds therein performed, float over the mind, and the words of him who sleeps so near recur?

Those, we say, who can feel this impression, can best imagine the influence the hour, and the hallowed spot, had upon the youthful mind of him who in after-life was to draw upon such feelings in order to produce the scenes we have mentioned. At the present time, and whilst young Shakespeare took his way through the churchyard, the feeling of awe which is sure to pervade the mind, more or less, in such a place, was peculiarly impressed upon him. It seemed a presentiment of some evil to come, which he could not shake off. He stopped and gazed around, and a chaos of wild thoughts and imaginings coursed one another through his brain as he did so. Within that sacred pile the knightly and the n.o.ble, the soldier of the cross, the fierce Norman, and the proud Churchman were entombed,--"_hea.r.s.ed in death_,"--the very men who had lived in the days he was so fond of dwelling on; those fierce times of contention and civil butchery.

The a.s.sociations connected with such a scene are indeed peculiar; the beings of a former age in all the panoply of war re-appear, and (as we gaze upon the architectural beauty of the holy edifices they have left behind them) we love to imagine their steel-clad forms,--their deep devotion; whilst remembrance of their heroic acts in the field is mixed up with the superst.i.tion and feelings of their day.

Whilst the youthful Shakespeare gazed upon the mounds, and the mossy tombstones, and the soft flowing river; as he listened to the dreary whisper of the breeze through the trees, a feeling of awe crept over him, and his imagination reverted to the world of spirits--

"When churchyards yawned and graves stood tenantless."

The living stood alone amongst the dead. Slowly he took his way, that extraordinary youth: his thoughts and conceptions seemed a wonder to himself; at one moment he gazed upwards at the o'erhanging firmament, "that majestical roof, fretted with golden fire;" then he stood upon the margin of the flowing river, and watched its waves, as they pa.s.sed onwards and were lost in the distance, like the hours pa.s.sing into eternity, and mingling with those before the flood. _What were those thoughts_ at that hour and period of his life? who could write them, or could he himself have described them? _We think not_--perhaps he may have himself given us something nearly akin. He may _have_ then thought with his own Prospero--

"The cloud capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; And like this unsubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep."

Man holds strange communion with himself in such a sanctuary. "The present horror of the time suits with it." There is even a sort of fascination to the spot, and a longing, a yearning after something supernatural. Even the hoot of the owl, or the cloistered flight of the bat, hath a charm in character.

Such, perhaps, were the thoughts of this youth, for he lingered long in the churchyard wrapt in his own imaginings. At length, as he heard an approaching footstep along the path, he slowly turned from the sacred edifice, leaped the wall, and sought the woods of Charlecote.

As young Shakespeare left the churchyard, the person whose approach had interrupted his meditations slowly walked up to the porch of the church.

As the new comer turned, on reaching the porch, the clock from the tower sounded the first hour after midnight; a deep and clanking note which swam over the adjoining fields and was lost in fainter replications.

"'Tis the hour," said he, "and now for the man."

The midnight visitor was apparently a tall figure, wearing the long riding cloak of the period, and which completely enveloped his form, whilst his broad-brimmed hat, and the sable plumes with which it was ornamented, as effectually shadowed his features.

"'Tis the hour," he said, as the iron tongue sounded from the tower.

"And now for this unsafe partisan." A low whistle (as if from some person lying perdue without the wall of the churchyard) was almost immediately heard, and in a few minutes another footstep was also to be distinguished as if from the town.

The figure in the cloak immediately advanced towards the approaching sounds, and as he did so he freed his right arm from his cloak, and, pulling it more completely over the left shoulder, felt that his rapier was easy in the sheath, that his other weapons were free to his hand, and also that the dagger in his girdle was handy to his grasp.

Readiness in the use of the various weapons (at that time a part of the costume of a completely dressed cavalier) was one of the accomplishments of a gentleman, and the steps and bearing of the person we have described (although but partially distinguishable in the shade of the tall trees of the churchyard) proclaimed that he was a person of some condition.

He walked slowly and deliberately down the path towards the gate, so that by the time he had traversed half its length, the swinging sound of its opening and closing proclaimed that the person advancing had pa.s.sed into the churchyard. The moon at this moment had become hidden behind one of the dark clouds which seemed to threaten a coming storm, so that (in the deepened gloom of the avenue) the tall cavalier (although the closing gate and approaching footsteps proclaimed the proximity of the new comer) could not at the moment distinguish him.

There seemed no desire for concealment on the part of either, as they walked boldly past each other. Only a close observer might have observed in the motions of each considerable caution and distrust. The hand closed over the hilt of the half-drawn dagger, and each gave the other what sailors term a wide berth in pa.s.sing.

The gloom of the place, at this moment indeed, completely hindered the features of either party from being distinguished even in pa.s.sing; nevertheless, as they moved by, each stared the other in the face with a sharp and piercing eye, and after having pa.s.sed a few paces, both simultaneously wheeled round and retraced their steps. As they did so, the first comer repeated in a low tone a single word, as if to himself, which was immediately answered by the other, and both turned; a sign then pa.s.sed between them; some mysterious signal, perhaps, like the words they had uttered, only known to the parties themselves.

"Gilbert Charnock!" said the first comer. "Is't not he?"

"The same," returned the other; "and dost not thou answer to-night to the name of Gifford?"

"Right," said the first; "you have come at the hour named."

"I am sworn to do so," replied Charnock.

"And are you armed to do as sworn to do?" inquired Gifford.

"I am, if on trial the object of our meeting here is found to be dangerous to the cause."

"He has been found so," said Gifford.