Читать книгу William Shakespeare as He Lived: An Historical Tale - Henry Curling - Страница 7

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It was one morning, during the reign of Elizabeth, that a youth, clad in a grey cloth doublet and hose (the usual costume of the respectable country tradesman or apprentice in England), took his early morning stroll in the vicinity of a small town in Warwickshire.

Lovely as is the scenery in almost every part of this beautiful county, which exhibits, perhaps, the most park-like and truly English picture in our island, it was (at the period of our story) far more beautiful than in its present state or cultivated improvement.

The thick and massive foliage of its woods, in Elizabeth's day, were to be seen in all the luxuriance of their native wildness, unpruned, unthinned, untouched by the hand of man, representing in their bowery beauty the wild uncontrolled woodlands of Britain, when waste, and wold, and swamp, and thicket constituted all.

The fern-clad undulations and forest glades around, too, at this period, were peopled by the wild and herded deer—those "poor, dappled fools—the native burghers of the desert city"—which, couched in their own confines, their antlered heads alone seen in some sequestered spot amongst the long grass, gave an additional charm to the locality they haunted, in all the freedom of unmolested range, from park to forest, and from glade to thicket.

In these bosky bournes and sylvan retreats, unmolested then by the axe of an encroaching population; nay, almost untrodden, save by the occasional forester or the fierce outlaw; the gnarled oaks threw their broad arms over the mossy carpet, giving so deep a shade in many parts, that the rays of the mid-day sun were almost intercepted, and the silent forest seemed dark, shadowy, and massive, as when the stately tramp of the soldiery of Rome sounded beneath its boughs.

As the youth cleared the enclosures in the immediate vicinity of the town, and brushed the dew from the bladed grass on nearing the more sylvan scene, the deep tones of the clock, from the old dark tower of the church, struck the third hour. The sound arrested him; he paused, and turning, gazed for some moments upon the buildings now seen emerging from the mint of early morning. At this hour no sign of life—no stir was to be observed in the town.

"The cricket sang, and man's o'er-labour'd sense

Repaired itself by rest."

Although the youth looked upon a scene familiar to his eye (for it was the place of his birth, and from whence as yet his truant steps had scarcely measured a score of miles), his capable eye dwelt upon every point of interest and beauty in the surrounding picture.

He had reached the age when the poetry of life begins to be felt; when an incipient longing for society of the softer sex, and an anxiety to look well in the eyes of the fair; to deserve well of woman, and to be thought a sort of soldier-servant and defender of beauty, is mixed up with the sterner ambitions of manhood.

Perhaps few forms would have been more likely to captivate the fancy of the other sex than the figure and face of this youth, as he stood at gaze in the clear morning air, and contemplated the landscape around. In shape, he was slightly but elegantly formed, and his well-knit limbs were seen to advantage in the close-fitting but homely suit he wore. Added to this figure of a youthful Apollo, was a countenance of genius, intelligence, and beauty, peculiarly indicative of the mind of the owner. His costume, we have already said, was homely; it was, indeed, but one remove from the dress of the common man of the period. A gray doublet of coarse cloth, edged or guarded with black, and tight-fitting trunks and hose of the same material; to those were added a common felt hat with steeple crown, and shoes without rosettes. In his hand he carried a stout quarter-staff, shod with iron at either end. No costume, however, could disguise or alter the nobility of look and gallant bearing of that youth. After regarding the view presented to him in the clear morning air for some moments, he turned, leaped the last enclosure which pertained to the suburbs of the town, and pursued his way through a wild chase or park, avoiding the more thick woods on his right.

How slight and trivial are sometimes the accidents which control the fate of man!

On setting out from his own home, the stripling had intended to traverse the woodlands which lay between his native town and Warwick, in order to keep an appointment he had made with some youthful associates of the latter place—some wild and reckless young men with whom he had lately become acquainted. The church clock, however, whilst it informed him he had anticipated the hour, determined him to change his intention of going straight to the trysting-place, and he turned his steps in a different direction. He therefore left the deep woodlands on his right, and sought the enclosures of Clopton Hall.

This change of purpose, in all probability, saved the life of the handsome lad. As he turned from the woodlands on his right, and sought the fern-clad chase and plantations in which Clopton Hall is embosomed, a tall, fierce-looking man, clad in the well-worn suit of a ranger or forester, stepped from the thick cover. As he did so, the forester lowered a cross-bow, with which he had been taking a steady aim at the stripling, from his shoulder, and stood and watched him till he disappeared.

"Now the red pestilence strike him," said the man. "He has again escaped me. But an I give him not the death of a fat buck ere many days are over his head, may my bow-string be the halter that hangs me."

"Nay, comrade," said a second forester, at that moment coming forward, "believe me, 'tis better as it is; thou must e'en drop this business, and satisfy thy revenge by a less matter than murder. I half suspected thy intent, and, therefore, have I followed thee. Come," he continued, "thou must, I say, forgive the affront this lad has put upon thee."

"May the fiend take me then!" returned the ruffian.

"Nay, thou art most likely the property of St. Nicholas methinks. Whatsoever thou dost," said the other, "certainly he will catch thee by the back if thou should harm this youngster."

"Why, look ye," said his fellow. "Have I not reason for what I do? The varlet (who I shrewdly suspect hath an eye upon the deer) constantly haunts our woods. Not a nook, not a secluded corner, not a thicket but he knows of, and explores. At all hours of the day, and even at night, have I caught sight of him wandering alone. Sometimes I have seen him, lying along, book in hand, under a huge oak, in Fullbrook wood; at other times I have watched him as he stood in the twilight beside the brook, which flows through Charlecote Park. As often as I have tried to gain speech with and warn him from our haunts, he has been ware of me; plunging into the covert (nimble as a stag), so escaped.

"Once, however, I came warily behind him while he stood watching the deer as they swept along a glade in Fullbrook; and heard him repeating words which rivetted me to the spot, nay almost took from me the power of accosting him. Not, however, to be outworded by a boy, I pounced upon him."

"Go to!" said the other laughing, "then you collared him, I suppose, and took him off to the head-ranger to give an account of his trespass. Was't not so! Eh?"

"You shall hear," returned the ranger. "At first I felt too much respect to rebuke him. There was something in his look I could not away with. He seemed somewhat angered too at being molested and caught by surprise; and there was that in his eye which could look down a lion, methought. After awhile, however, I gave him some of my mind, threatened to report his trespass to the knight our master, and to give him a taste of the stocks, or the cage."

"Good," said his fellow, laughing. "You said well!"

"Nay, 'twas not so good either, as it turned out," said the ranger.

"How so?" inquired his comrade.

"Why, he took my rebuke mildly at first, merely saying he sought not to molest the game, but only to enjoy the liberty, freedom, and leisure of the wild woods."

"Well," interrupted the other, "between ourselves, that seems natural enough. But, an all the lads in the country were to do the same, they would soon drive the deer from their haunts, and render our trade a poor one."

"So I told him; and that I should not be so easy the next time I caught him straying in our woods. Nay, that I would then, indeed, cudgel him like a dog."

"Ha! ha! and how took he that threat?"

"Mass! I would you could have seen how he took it," said the irate ranger, "for I shall never forget the change it wrought. He looked at me with an eye of fire, reared himself up like a startled steed, and railed on me in such terms as I think never man either heard or spoke before. Nay, an I had not known he was the son of a trader here in Stratford, I had taken him for the heir of some grandee, for never heard I before such a tongue, or such words of fire."

"Go to!" said the other; "and how answered ye that?"

"At first I felt awed; but, when he dared me but to raise a finger in the way of assault, and stirred my wrath so, that I laid hands on him, he struck me to the earth; when I rose, and again attacked him, despite my skill at quarter-staff, he cudgelled me to his heart's content."

"What, yonder lad?"

"Ay, yonder boy! His strength and skill were so great that, had I not cried peccavi, I had died under his blows."

"And for this you are resolved to shoot him!"

"I am! I cannot forget the disgrace of his quarter-staff. My very bones ache now at the bare remembrance."

"Aye, but thou must forget it, comrade," said the other; "for to shoot him, look ye, might get the rangers all into trouble. He hath, you see, gone out of our bounds this morning; but let us follow, and if we find him we will both beat him. As far as that goes, I am your man. 'Tis allowable, and in the way of business. But for shooting the lad—fie on't! 'tis cowardly and dangerous. Ever while you live, forbear your bullet on a defenceless person."

"Well, be it so!" said his fellow. "I agree. He hath had the best of me, for once in his life. But, at least, will I be revenged:—blow for blow."

"Hath he good friends, said ye?"

"None of note."

"What then is his father?"

"The wool-comber who dwells in Henley Street."

"Enough! Now let us but catch him, and by 'r lady, we'll beat him so that he shall scarce disport his curiosity amongst our woods again."

"Nay, but if we kill him?" said the other, with a sneer.

"Then must our master bear us out; we are hired to keep off all lurking knaves. By fair means or foul, it must be done. An we kill him, we'll e'en knock over a buck, and lay it to's charge. Swear we caught him red-handed in the fact, and there an end."