Читать книгу William Shakespeare as He Lived: An Historical Tale - Henry Curling - Страница 27

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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 passed 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 gratitude 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 lusty 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 circumstances, 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 buttresses.

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 circumstance 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 noble, the soldier of the cross, the fierce Norman, and the proud Churchman were entombed—"hearsed 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 associations 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 superstition 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 passed onwards and were lost in the distance, like the hours passing 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 passed 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 passing.

The gloom of the place, at this moment indeed, completely hindered the features of either party from being distinguished even in passing; nevertheless, as they moved by, each stared the other in the face with a sharp and piercing eye, and after having passed 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 passed 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.

"And yet our friend. One joined heart and hand in that cause. And yet to die by our hands."

"Either he or ourselves, besides others implicated in the plot: nay, the cause itself demands the sacrifice."

"And he will be here to meet us?" inquired Charnock.

"He has sworn it."

"Which of us is to deal with him?"

"Why this question? The lot was drawn by you."

"Enough: and he is even now in concealment at Sir Hugh Clopton's. Is't not so?"

"So far I traced him by the mad acts he hath committed since leaving France, and by which conduct our faction is placed in jeopardy."

"But come; it still wants several minutes of the appointed time. Walk aside here, and I will tell you in how much the man is unfortunate in his position. You know the circumstance of his coming amongst us, and how he undertook to be the instrument, the steel, the dagger, as it were, by which our arch enemy was to be reached."

"I do, and how he refused to share the glory of the enterprise with others, and resolving to take the whole upon himself, suddenly and secretly set off, without further circumstance."

"There shone out the dangerous madness of the man," returned the other, "and by-and-by comes a reaction, by which we are all endangered, as thus: it appears that on his arrival in England this Parry was as suddenly seized with scruples, and under influence thereof he goes about to certain gentlemen, to advise with them as to the propriety of his undertaking this pious act. Luckily, it seems, he hath, as yet, consulted with men who are deemed at least safe, or we ourselves had scarce been here to-night. By some he was told that the enterprise was criminal and impious; whilst others, again, applauded it. Nay, even Ragazoni, the Nuncio, and the Pope himself (to whom he wrote a letter), desired him to persist in his resolution."

"Methinks that such authority might have satisfied his scruples."

"Not a whit as you shall hear; for so deeply did the fiend palter with him in favour of the heretic Elizabeth, that even when he had opportunity twice, thrice, nay, a dozen times repeated, he could not strike the blow."

"The evil one surely mounts guard over that iron-hearted woman," said Gifford, "or she could never have escaped the many designs set on foot to cut her off."

"One would think it," returned Charnock, "and in the instance I am speaking of, she seems to have been specially guarded by some familiar; inasmuch as although Parry, albeit he managed matters so well that he gained an introduction and a private audience of the Queen, no sooner did he find himself in the presence, than his scruples returned with so much force, that he commenced an exhortation in place of driving his dagger to her heart; and after praying of her to tender her life, and grant us Catholics more indulgence in the exercise of our religion, he actually informed her there were numerous conspiracies at that moment formed against her."

"And how escaped he being apprehended and examined?" inquired Gifford.

"Ah, there consists the marvel," returned Charnock; "but it seems the Queen looked upon him as a harmless maniac, and took little account of what he uttered. She trusted for safety to God and to her people's love, she said, and so dismissed him."

"Indeed," continued Charnock, "it seems then, that the interview for the time completely prostrated all Parry's energies; and lest he should be tempted, as he owned, by the opportunities he found of approaching her ere his words could have effect, he always came to court unprovided with any offensive weapon."

"And then he afterwards relapsed into his former violence; was't not so?"

"It was. He returned to France, saw the Nuncio and Ragazoni, became again confirmed in his first intent, and has again recrossed to England, where his madness and his extravagant conduct are likely to compromise all his friends. Nay, an he is not speedily silenced, we shall assuredly perish by the gibbet."

During the foregoing conversation of the conspirators, thus met in the seclusion of the churchyard of Stratford, (a trysting place they had fixed on as more likely than any other to be unmolested by the prying eyes and ears of the curious,) they had slowly traversed round the sacred edifice; and now, as the taller stranger finished his discourse, they arrived at the north porch, and stood concealed in its shadow.

"We seek an edifice dedicated to the service of religion for a strange and awful purpose," said Gifford, as he gazed along the footpath leading from the church.

"Since it is to serve the purposes of the true religion," said Charnock, "let us trust to the greatness of the cause to sanctify our doings. Hast thou any scruples?"

"None," said Gifford. "But time passes. How, if our man fail?"

"That would bode us ill," said Charnock; "though I think it unlikely that he will do so. Between the hours of one and two was the time I appointed him to be here, and he swore to me that he would not fail."

"And how didst thou get opportunity of speech with him?" inquired Gifford.

"By following him to Clopton soon after his arrival; where I gained an interview, and bade him hither in the name of our leader. Hark, the signal; 'tis he!" and the two conspirators advanced along the path, whilst at the same time footsteps were heard.