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."