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 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 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 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 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 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."
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 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 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 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."
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 sort so to 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."
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 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 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."
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!
"Oh this will make my mother die of grief."
The tears would then course one another down his cheek, and he would start up and hurry onwards again. He had no fixed route, but inquired his way from village to town, and from hamlet to city. His good constitution, and out-door habits, made it no hardship to him to pass the night upon the mossed bank in the open air. The cottage afforded him refreshment, and the thin drink of the shepherd from his bottle was oft-times offered in return for a few minutes' conversation upon the wold; the hawthorn bush the shade in which he rested; and thus he proceeded onwards in his flight, purposely deviating from the direct road, as well from inclination as that he felt it likely some search might be made after him either by friends or enemies.
The few coins he had in his pocket when he started were soon expended, and he experienced at times, during his progress, the pangs of hunger without the means of allaying it, and this perhaps was an ordeal Shakespeare was fated to go through. He was destined to feel the "uses of adversity" ere he rose, by his own mighty efforts, above the world. He was to see human nature in all its varieties. To experience the depressing weight of poverty, ere he surmounted his worldly cares, as the lion shakes the dew-drops from his mane. Adversity was to be the finishing school of his studies—nature the book presented. In this school he took his degree, and which all the learning of the ancients, all the pedants of the antique world would have failed in teaching him. Nor was his attention confined to the actions of men as he mingled amongst them. He was the exact surveyor of the inanimate world as he travelled through it, and his descriptions in after-life were grafted from the contemplation of things as they really existed.
To a solitary traveller on foot at this period there was considerable peril. The resolute ruffian, the "resolved villain," who lived by levying contributions on the road, was often to be met with. Nay, even strong parties of travellers were frequently attacked, and robbed, and murdered, 'twixt town and town. Still all unarmed, except the stout staff he carried in his hand, and the small dagger worn at his girdle, and which served to cut up the food he ate, Shakespeare held on his way. The lowly ruffian as he emerged from the thick cover which overhung the road occasionally scowled upon him as he passed, and then let him proceed unquestioned. There was something in the eye, which met his glance, which told the robber of hard blows and desperate resistance, whilst the unfurnished manner in which he travelled promised little in the shape of booty. Once or twice the wayfarer had joined a party of carriers, who, with other travellers in their company, were going the same route, but, as he frequently diverged from the road, he soon lost such companionship and made his way alone, through by-roads and foul ways, and across the dreary wastes and commons, at that period extending occasionally for many miles. It was on the fourth evening of his journey that, having made a long detour from the main road, he again came into it about five miles from Stoney Stratford. The day had been lovely, he had wandered far, and as he laid himself down beneath some huge trees and watched the bright track of the setting sun, he fell into a sound sleep.
'Twas "the middle summer's spring." The bank upon which he lay looked a perfect haunt of the elfin crew, but whether or not, on this night, Shakespeare dreamt a dream of Midsummer, or whether he dreamt at all, we are unable to say. Whilst he slept, however, he was suddenly awakened by the sound of voices near.
As he opened his eyes, by the moon's light he observed three persons standing a few yards from him. The spot on which he reclined was so shadowed by the overhanging branches and thick with fern that he had himself been undiscovered, and a few moments' observation convinced him that the men he beheld were "squires of the night's booty." Their heavy boots, their soiled doublets, the rusted breast-plates they wore, their slouched hats, and untrimmed beards, altogether indeed convinced him they were thieves.
Whilst he regarded the ill-favoured trio they descended from the overhanging bank into the road, where they were joined by a fourth person, who stole from the covert on the other side, and for some minutes remained in conversation with them. The situation was not without its interest, albeit it was fraught with danger to Shakespeare. He had, indeed, unconsciously intruded himself into the trysting place of a band of robbers, and, as he rose to his feet and removed somewhat behind the tree, he watched them narrowly.
They were evidently laying in wait for passengers, as he more than once observed one of the party throw himself flat upon the road, with his ear to the ground, in order to listen for the tread of hoofs. To remain behind the oak (whose antique root peeped out upon the overhanging bank) would have been dangerous. Still, as he resolved closely to watch these men, he cautiously withdrew into the deeper cover of the trees. As he did so his head struck against some obstacle pendant from one of the boughs, and, as he raised his eyes, he beheld the dead body of a man suspended, a ghastly object thus seen in the gloom, and which sufficiently shewed the evil nature of the neighbourhood. He had, in fact, reached a spot called the "Crooked Wood," a part of the road at that period famous for robbery and murder, and the bodies of several malefactors were hung in terrorem.
Shuddering at the sight, he withdrew from the vicinity of this object, which swinging backwards and forwards looked yet more horrible in the deep gloom. The next moment he heard the distant sound of hoofs upon the rood, and at the same time observed the figures beneath drawing cautiously off on either hand, concealing themselves completely in the deep shadows, one only remaining prostrate in the very middle of the highway. Although the horsemen approached rapidly, it was some time ere they neared the spot; now the clatter of hoofs appearing close at hand, and then (as some turn in the road intervened) again for some moments totally lost to the ear.
At length they advanced down the hill which led immediately into this dark defile. Two horsemen he distinguished; the foremost immediately reined up his horse, and signed to his companion to do the same. The heart of Shakespeare beat quickly as he observed one of the travellers dismount and stoop down to render assistance to the prostrate form before him. As he did so the robber suddenly grasped the traveller by the throat and pulled him down, at the same moment his three companions darted like lightning from either side of the road; whilst two assailed the horseman, the third aided their comrade to despatch the traveller who had been entrapped.
The struggle was desperate: the mounted cavalier had in an instant unsheathed his long rapier, and manfully defended himself; and the woods around rang to the blows of the combatants. Meanwhile the prostrate traveller, whose horse had galloped off at the commencement of the fray, was also in an unpleasant plight. This latter, being a powerful man, had more than once heaved himself up by main force, and nearly cleared himself from his adversaries. But, with heavy blows and desperate exertions, they at length succeeded in pinning him down. In an instant, however, the fallen man succeeded in drawing a pistol from his belt, and discharged it into the body of one of his opponents.
All this happened in as short a time as it has taken the reader to peruse it. Life and death, in such deadly conflict, in taken and received by the combatants like the lightning's flash; and, albeit the travellers straggled manfully, yet a very few minutes sufficed to tell against the leaser party. The horseman was on the point of being dragged from his saddle, and his fellow-traveller was growing exhausted with the violence of action. At that moment, however, a heavy blow fractured the skull of the ruffian who hold the bridle-rein of the rearing steed, and as the new combatant afterwards opposed himself to the robber, who had by this time succeeded in bringing the rider to the ground, after a short and rapid combat, the latter turned and fled.
This turned the tide of battle instantaneously in favour of the travellers, and as in oft-times the case in such conflicts, it ended in the same rapid manner in which it had commenced. The travellers stood panting with their recent exertions, and whilst three bodies lay before them in the road, thou: deliverer, leaning upon his heavy quarter-staff, stood regarding one of them with curious eye.
Meantime, after the person, who seemed by his appearance the principal of the travellers, had somewhat recovered himself, he stepped up to the hero of the quarter-staff, and poured forth his thanks for the service rendered.
"We are indebted to you for no less than our lives," he said, "and would fain repay the obligation by something more acceptable than thanks."
The moon was at the moment hidden, but as Shakespeare caught a nearer view of the features of the speaker, he plucked his own hat over his brow, and withdrew still further into the shadow of the trees. At the same time he courteously refused all requital for the aid he had rendered.
"Can we do nothing to requite this favour?" said the taller Cavalier.
"You can," said Shakespeare, "since, if I guess aright, your name is Arderne, and you go towards Stratford-upon-Avon."
"Such is my name," said the traveller. "How can I serve you?"
"By giving this token," said Shakespeare, tearing a leaf from a small tablet he earned in his breast, and writing a few words on it.
"No more?" inquired the traveller, endeavouring to get a better view of the speaker.
"Tell those to whom you give the token," said Shakespeare, "that he who sends it is in life and health—no more."
"But will you not bear us company?" said Arderne. "This place seems dangerous, and alone you may be met by others of the gang."
"'Tis no matter," said Shakespeare; "I cannot consort with thee. Our paths to-night, as through life, lie in different directions. Farewell!" and hastily darting off, he was quickly lost in the gloom.
"Strange," said Walter Arderne, as he glanced closely at the small slip of paper in his hand, and which the moon's light now gave him an opportunity of reading. "Ah! this paper is directed to the wool-comber in Henley Street. Methought I knew the voice. 'Twas then William Shakespeare who so opportunely befriended us."
So much was Arderne surprised at this meeting, that he would fain have followed Shakespeare, but his companion dissuaded him.
"The man is gone suddenly as he came," said he, "and we are not wise to remain longer in this place. Come," he continued, as Walter remained looking in the direction his sometime friend had taken, "let us on, and endeavour to catch our horses. We may be met again in this dark pass, and, by my fay, it is not every night in the week a man meets with a—let me see—How called ye this friend in need?"
"Shakespeare," said Arderne, whilst he still lingered in the hope of catching another glimpse of his deliverer—"William Shakespeare."
"Ah, Shakespeare!" said the blunt Fluellyn, sheathing his rapier. "Truly so; but come on, a' God's name, I say; for 'tis not every wood at midnight that can produce a Shakespeare."