THE TWELFTH-TIDE REVELRY.
The rudeness of the keepers and their overbearing style towards the villagers, was by no means an uncommon occurrence. Backed up by their employers to display as much roughness towards all trespassers as they chose, the foresters were usually a coarse and brutal set. They were mostly chosen too, at this period, for courage, strength, and skill with their weapons; consequently when they came into collision with the peasantry, the latter frequently had the worst of it, and the conflict seldom ended without serious consequences.
On the present occasion, several of the village lads assembled vowed war to the knife against the men they had fought with. They had so often experienced their outrécuidance and overbearing rudeness, that they swore to annoy them in every possible way they could.
"Sir Thomas Lucy," said Ralph Coulter, "doth ever take part against us, let his men use us vilely as they may; nay, we shall soon have no leave to step either to the right or to the left from the beaten road. For look ye, an we steal but into the meadows to whisper a word into a fair lass's ear, we are warned off, and ordered to keep the path; an we take a dog to hunt the ducks in the stream, we are threatened with imprisonment for poaching."
"As well do the thing at once as be blamed for it," said another peasant; "who'll go down with me to-night, and shoot a buck in Fulbrook?"
"Have with you for one, say I," said Ralph Coulter, "an we miss the buck and hit the keeper, so much the better shot."
"Nay, this is but folly," said a third, "and may bring all into trouble, so to speak before strangers; you do but jest, I trow! Look ye, we are overheard too."
"An ye mean this lad who hath so well cudgelled Black Dick," said Coulter, "I dare be sworn he is not a sneak to turn informer upon us." "Wilt take a part and bring in a buck some night? Me thinks it would be rare sport," he continued, addressing Shakespeare.
"Marry will I," said Shakespeare, whose daring disposition was instantly aroused at the idea of the exploit. "Any night you like I should dearly love to do some despite towards those overweening knaves."
"Well," said Coulter, "we shall talk further of it anon; meantime see the dancing is over, and the indoors diversions are beginning. I am for old Hathaway's orchard and the cider revel."
"And I am for goodman Thorne's," said another; and so the party separated.
The shadows of a January's evening were now beginning to descend over the surrounding scene, and the several parties to retire to their different homesteads, there to continue their twelfth-tide diversions, and to partake of such fare as the good wives had prepared for the swains accompanying their daughters home.
Young Shakespeare, who had made acquaintance with Ralph Coulter, accordingly accompanied him to the cottage of Master Hathaway, where he again met with the handsome Anne, and renewed his acquaintance with her.
The maiden indeed seemed nothing loth to receive his attention, for his handsome figure and gallant conduct had already made some impression upon her.
According to an ancient custom in this and other counties of "Merrie England," Master Hathaway assembled his guests in the principal apartment of his domicile, a good-sized and comfortable-looking room, and which (as was usual in those days) served the jolly yeoman for "parlour, and kitchen, and hall." There was the huge gaping chimney, with its comfortable bench on either hand, together with those stout timbered rafters and oaken beams at the roof, from which hung such store of bacon and other good things appertaining. There was the diamond-paned-window and its seat beneath, with the stout timbered doors, the high-backed chairs, and the one massive and cumbrous oaken table, and which seemed from its thick supporters to be fixed into the floor, or growing out of it; and there sat the grandsire in his old accustomed seat under the chimney, "sans eyes, sans taste, sans teeth, sans everything," yet looking with some sort of recognition upon the sports he had witnessed, man and boy, for near a century in that very room. In short, it was a perfect picture of rural comfort and old world contentment that kitchen and its appurtenances, filled as it was with those happy, smiling, and rosy maidens, and their stout-limbed ruddy village swains.
As soon as Master Hathaway had assembled his guests and family, he filled a huge pitcher with cider, and the whole party, young and old, male and female, filed out into the orchard in rear of the cottage. Here they immediately took hands around one of the best apple trees, and dancing round it, the whole company hailed the veteran in the following doggrel, in the gladsome feeling of their light hearts, flinging and capering, shouting and hallooing, like so many bacchanals.
"All hail to thee, thou old apple-tree,
Whence thou may'st bud, and whence thou may'st blow,
And whence thou may'st bear apples enow.
Bonnets-full! caps-full!
Bushel-bushel-sacks-full,
And our pockets-full eke also;
Here's for thee, thou old apple-tree, huzza! huzza!"
Whilst this was being sung, the females of the party, seizing the opportunity of the jug passing round, made their escape within doors; and then the joint intended for supper being clapped upon the spit, the doors were all immediately made fast. Meantime Master Hathaway, having finished his "all hail" to the patriarch of the apple family, bestowed a libation on its mossed stem from the remains of the cider, and then, at the head of his party, made the tour of his orchard, singing the same exquisite piece of doggrel over again.
This done, as the sharp and biting blast of a January night began to be apparent, and the snow to fall, the whole of the men assembled filed off to the house. Here (according to the custom of the time and the sport toward) the doors were found to have been secured by the female portions of the revellers; and they were put through the ceremony of a formal demand for admittance, and as formal a denial.
Exposed to the pitiless pelting of the snow-storm, whilst the damsels jeered them at advantage from the casement, 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 lass 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 lasses 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 superstitiously 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 superstitions; 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 superstitions 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 superstitions 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 superstitions 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 assurance 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 assemblage. He saw them in their ignorance and superstition: and though conscious of his own superiority over the rude throng, "sitting 'mongst men like a descended god,"—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 superstitions had conjured up. The snow-storm still rattled on the casement, 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 unassuming 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 amusement 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 casements, 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—God 'ild us; but even the witches themselves were no more terrible than was Robin and his rout. Mass, 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]
"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]
"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, lass, 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. Mass, 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 pass 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 pass 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 circumvented or endeavoured to cheat the buyer, be he witch, devil, or fairy, you are fully entitled to what you asked. The other fifteen pieces,' said he, 'I will lay up in store for the use of our abbey.' On this assurance 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 flustered 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."
"And who do you then suppose the buyer was?" inquired Shakespeare.
"Who?" said the old host, "why, who but Robin Goodfellow, his own self! Who else should it be?"
"True," said Shakespeare, laughing; "there's no question on't."
"A song, a song," said Dick, the shepherd. "Let fair Mistress Anne sing the song about Robin."
Anne Hathaway accordingly, in a marvellously sweet voice, and to the old tune of Dulcina, sang some verses, which, although not word for word the same, in some sort were like the following stanzas:—
I.
From Oberon, in fairy land,
The king of ghosts and shadows there,
Mad Robin I, at his command,
Am sent to view the night sports here.
What revel rout
It kept about
I will o'ersee
And merry be
In every corner where I go,
And make good sport with ho, ho, ho!
II.
When house or hearth doth sluttish lie,
I pinch the maidens black and blue;
The bed-clothes from the bed pull I,
And lay them naked all to view.
'Twixt sleep and wake
I do them take,
And on the clay-cold floor them throw;
If out they cry,
Then forth I fly,
And loudly laugh I, ho, ho, ho.
III.
By wells and rills, in meadows green
We nightly dance out hey-day guise
And to our fairy king and queen
We dance our moonlight minstrelsies.
When larks 'gin sing
Away we fling,
And babes new-born steal as we go,
An elf instead
We leave in bed,
And wind out-laughing, ho, ho, ho![7]
How much longer Mistress Anne Hathaway's song might have continued it is impossible to say, but as she finished the last verse steps were heard without the door, followed by sounds, as if some one in a faint voice demanded admittance, and then a dull heavy blow, like a person falling, and which shook the door violently.
The wind piped loud and drear, whilst all paused and listened, and presently a deep groan, which appeared to come into the very room from beneath the door, still further startled the party.
The village maidens were too much frightened to cry out, but each threw herself into the arms of the swain next her, whilst Master Hathaway rose from his seat, and Shakespeare felt obliged to bestow a kiss upon the ripe lips of Anne, in order to reassure her.
"Gad-a-mercy," said Hathaway, "'tis surely Robin himself come amongst us."
"Ah!" said Dame Hathaway, "this comes of singing ribald songs to offend him. Now the good year; what shall we do to appease the sprite? Ah, mercy on me, there is another groan, as I am a true woman."
"Some one is surely in distress," said Shakespeare, rising, "suffer me to unbar the door."
"Troth, I'd rather not," said Hathaway; "since it may be a device of the evil one to come amongst us."
"Nay, but it may be some wayfarer lost or misled on this inclement night," said Shakespeare. "A few minutes' neglect may cause death. I pr'ythee allow me to open and look out. There are enough of us here," he continued, smiling at the horror-stricken peasants, "to cudgel Puck and all his crew."
So saying, Shakespeare stepped across to the door, and, drawing the bolts, quickly opened it, when the body of a man to all appearance dead, rolled into the apartment.