William Shakespeare as He Lived: An Historical Tale

by Henry Curling

The music rang out from a sort of a temporary orchestra, formed at one end of the hall, arched over and festooned with sweet flowers and green shrubs. It consisted mostly of stringed instruments, which gave forth a silver sound, accompanied by the deep tones of the bassoon and the occasional flourish of the horn, and whilst the dancers trod a measure, and the different guests, in all the freedom of unchecked enjoyment, wandered about, how sweetly the strains floated through those oak-panelled rooms, reverberating in the long corridors and passages, and, mellowed by distance, thrummed in the upper rooms.

It mingled with the whispered softness of the lover's tongue, sounding doubly sweet by night. It added to the charm of beauty, as she listened to the flattering tale, till the coyness of the half-won maiden seemed to relax in music; and the glittering cavalier, with renewed hope, led her to the dance.

How inferior is the fussy and excited style of our own days compared with such a scene as this, where all was open-hearted gaiety and enjoyment, where, without effort, all was dignified, and brilliant, and picturesque.

The very serving-men and maids, ranged in a long row at the lower end of the hall, seemed to add to the effect of the picture. The men in their rich liveries with heraldic badge upon the sleeve; the maids, all in one sort of costume, fitting and becoming for their station in life; nay, the orchestra itself was a picture, composed as it was of respectable personages from the town of Stratford, grave-looking, bearded, and staid, working away at their different instruments, as if it was a matter of national pride and import,—the celebration of the fair Charlotte's natal day. Each in his quaint-cut doublet and scarlet hose. How they clutched at the bass-viol, those fat citizens, and glowed with the strains they produced; how the fiddlers jerked and worked at their bows, with heads going, and feet keeping time: how the puffed cheek of the horn-blowers seemed to grow distended to the degree of exploding; and how the eyes of the whole party seemed to roll about in agony, and follow the dancers as their strains excited them to fresh efforts; and how resolutely, ever and anon, they paused to take a long pull at the huge flagons placed within their reach; returning to their instruments with renewed vigour, and stamping to keep time, as if sitting still was almost too great an effort, and they longed to jump up, and fling out amongst the best there; urging one another to quicker movements and louder strains as the liquor mounted and the evening wore on.

Amongst that gay and brilliant throng there was one whose whole soul seemed wrapped in melody. The soft tones of the floating minstrelsy seemed to steal upon his heart. He stood apart from all: aloof in person as in mind, leaning against one of the quaint-cut ornaments of the room. As his eye wandered amongst the gay dancers, his countenance was at times lighted up by an expression which seemed divine. The greatness of his soul shone out in his glorious countenance, and yet, save by two persons, he was all unmarked.

It was the boy poet, the youthful Shakespeare.

Walter Arderne, who felt that no assemblage could be complete which wanted the presence of his friend, no hour enjoyed but in his company, had brought him again to Clopton, where he mingled in the scene, not so much a guest as a spectator. And yet unknown as unmarked, or, if regarded, perhaps but calling forth a passing remark upon his good looks, how greatly did that youth feel himself the superior of all there, elevated as some of them were in station. The fineness and acuteness of organic sensibility made him alive to all the mighty world of ear and eye. Nothing escaped him; and yet feeling this within himself, and in strength of mind a demigod, in profundity of view a prophet,[3] he moved amongst the throng, as if unconscious of being more than the most unassuming servitor in attendance. Gentle and open in manner as a child.

The good Sir Hugh welcomed him to his house, and presented him to two of his oldest friends, as one to whom he owed much. "A goodly lad," he said, "and of exceeding promise; a ripe and ready wit, sirs. By 'r Lady, but he hath the knack of making me laugh till my face is like a wet napkin. Nay, and he inditeth rhymes, too, it would do you good to hear. A poet, I'll assure ye, sirs, already, and a rare one, too. Go thy ways, lad; go thy ways. 'Fore Heaven we owe thee much, and hope to requite it."

"A young friend," said Arderne, to one of the ladies with whom he danced, and as he pointed the unconscious poet out to her, whilst standing at the lower end of the hall. "A young friend who, though in humble life, seems to me of somewhat extraordinary character, and in whom I am greatly interested. He unites in his genius the utmost elevation and the utmost depth; and the most foreign, and even irreconcilable properties subsist in him together. I cannot describe to you the delight I experience in the companionship of that youth." The lady glanced her eye towards the part of the hall indicated by Walter Arderne, as he mentioned his friend. It was but a glance, and she observed the person indicated. The words humble life was, however, quite sufficient to destroy all interest in the bosom of the beauty, for Clara de Mowbray (albeit she was both lovely and amiable) partook, in some sort, of the pride of her race. Added to this, she was the victim of an unrequited passion, and save for the tall handsome form and expressive features of her partner, she had no eyes.

"I should have imagined, from all I have this night beheld," she said, "there was but one in this room, nay, in this world, who could take up even a moment of your care or thoughts, fair sir. This new-found friend must, indeed, be a rare specimen, if he can wean your eyes for a moment from Charlotte Clopton. But that, indeed," she added, with a sigh, "is as it should be; she is, I think, to-night more beautiful than ever!"