William Shakespeare as he lived Part 25

"Beware I shew thee not how love can turn to hate," said the dark forester, bitterly. "Thou shalt not spurn me thus for nothing. Come, thou shalt dance," and forthwith the forester led the maiden out to join the dancers.

Gazing upon the revellers, and at no great distance from the spot where the forester and his unwilling partner danced, stood a youth, apparently about seventeen years of age. He leaned upon a stout staff, and regarded the dancers with a countenance so melancholy, that it was evident (although he listened to the pipe and tabor, and watched the glee of the revellers) he had no part in their enjoyment. It was young Shakespeare: he had been absent some time from his native town--no one knew where he had sojourned, or what part of the world he had visited during this sequestration of himself from a neighbourhood recent events had rendered so full of melancholy a.s.sociations. He had occasionally given his parents intimation by a few lines, or some message, of his welfare, and had but a few days before returned to Stratford.

It is not to be supposed, that one so full of observation would fail in remarking the very handsome female we have described. "The prettiest low-born la.s.s that ever ran on the green sward."

With a melancholy mind he had bent his steps that day towards Shottery.

Such revels as the present he had before oft-times taken part in, and now (albeit he was in no mood for joviality), with the feeling and desire to observe the happiness of others, he had remained to look upon the sports.

His thoughts, indeed, were sad enough. He had lost his good friends from Clopton, after the terrible affliction of their house. He had been left alone after having tasted the sweets of their society, and this too in the midst of misery and disease. 'Tis true, that owing to the good management of his parents, and their being of more careful habits than the generality of the neighbours in their condition of life, they had kept the disease from their hearth, and for that he had reason to be thankful. But, added to the feeling of melancholy which the events we have before narrated had caused, was the knowledge that his father's circ.u.mstances were daily growing worse, and he felt too that he himself, although he had reached a time of life when he ought to be doing something, was without purse, profession, or prospect.

These thoughts, however, gradually gave place to interest in the surrounding scene. His was a mind and disposition which could scarcely witness the happiness of others without partaking of their joy, and gradually he became more and more interested. As he continued to observe the beautiful villager (for she was in the full blossom of her charms), he noticed that she seemed uneasy with her partner, and averse to his rough attentions. Watching more closely, he observed the overbearing style of the forester, and the increasing timidity of the maiden. That was enough for him. He moved nearer to them, and as the dance finished, he stepped up and accosted her.

"Your hand, fair maiden," he said, gently taking her hand in his. "But that I think you have fatigued yourself, I would dance with you."

There was so much sweetness in his voice and expression, as he said this, and his action was so gentle, that the maid resigned her hand, and, as she gazed at his handsome face, she unconsciously put her arm in his, and adopted him as her protector. In such cases the parties understood each other in a moment.

If there is one thing more likely than another to excite a desperate quarrel amongst men, it is rivalry in the affairs of love and gallantry.

The veriest cur upon four legs can hardly brook being cut out unceremoniously before the eyes of his favourite, and to the tall forester, with the forbidding countenance, the fact of being thus outbraved by a stripling, was matter, at first, of astonishment more than anger. The fellow was a sort of champion too, one hired and kept by the knight of Charlecote as a sort of terror to evil-doers in his parks and preserves; an impudent, reckless, and quarrelsome companion; one whom most of the youths present would fain have avoided fastening a quarrel upon, inasmuch as he had kept the ring on Kenilworth Green for a whole Christmas, against all comers, a few years before.

Slightly bowing her head in courtesy, Anne Hathaway would have tripped off with her new friend and protector, but the keeper was not the man likely to put up with so unceremonious a parting. He stepped on a few paces, and presently overtook them.

"How now, young Master," he said to Shakespeare, "methinks you carry this matter as bravely as rudely? A word with you ere you walk off so quietly with my partner there."

As Anne, in some alarm, had rather urged her protector on, the forester unconsciously laid his hand upon his arm to detain him.

The youth s.n.a.t.c.hed his arm quickly away. "Lay no fist of thine on me, sirrah," said he, "as many words as you like, but touch not my doublet."

Th forester looked surprised at the eye of fire with which Shakespeare regarded him.

"And wherefore not?" he said.

"Simply," reiterated Shakespeare, "because your putting affront upon me will oblige me to wipe off such rudeness by a blow of my staff."

"Thou art a bold young springald as ever it was my lot to fall in with,"

said the forester, stepping a pace back and regarding his rival with a scowling look; "and by my fay, for your inches, as likely a young fellow as ere I looked upon, well limbed and clean made as a good bred colt.

But I must take this sauciness out of thee. I cannot sing small before so young a champion; come," he continued, "unhand the la.s.s, lest I pluck her from thee, or rather thee from her."

"The maiden seeks her home for a s.p.a.ce," said Shakespeare, "and I attend her; after that I will hold converse with thee. Fear not," he whispered to his fair companion, as she shrank back in alarm at the threatening aspect of the forester, "this is but a drunken dissolute fellow, and I shall be able to protect you from his violence, depend on it. Those who threaten loudly are oftentimes but weak in action."

The pair were again about to move off. But the evident aversion of the maiden to the rude forester was indeed gall and wormwood to him, and roused him to stop her progress homeward.

"Nay, Mistress Anne," he said, "you carry it not thus with your gallant; come, I will bring you to your cot myself," and as he said this, he stretched forth his hand, and would have rudely seized her by the arm, but Shakespeare, who had antic.i.p.ated something of the sort, dealt him so severe a blow over the knuckles with the staff he carried, that the hand fell powerless, and the forester, with a cry of pain, started back for the moment unable to return the blow.

"Make amongst your companions," said the youth, "I must bide this act now, for good or ill. I have struck the first blow."

The controversy had, indeed, already collected several spectators; "A ring, a ring!" they cried. "Here's Black d.i.c.k challenged to a bout at quarter-staff by a boy."

"Ha," said Grasp, who had come up amongst others, and now pushed into the circle, "a.s.sault and battery here, eh? Keep back, my masters all; keep out of range, lest we get a flout from their cudgels. There'll be smashing work anon, for look you, yonder's my wild slip of a sometime-clerk, John Shakespeare's unthrift son. He's going to catch it this time, and right glad am I therefore. Stand back, Master Dismal, stand back. Ah, there they go at it right merrily."

"I see evident chance of a broken skull in this business," said Dismal.

"That fellow with the green frock seldom amuses himself by a set-to in the ring but he either maims or lames his adversary for life."

The parties indeed had quickly engaged, for as speedily as the forester could shake the numbness from his fingers, he dealt a most uncompromising blow at his adversary, which had it taken effect would certainly have knocked out his brains. But the youth received it on his staff with great coolness, and shifting his right hand, returned it as swiftly. The forester in an instant lost his temper; he rushed upon his opponent with the intention of seizing him in his powerful grip, and throwing him to the earth; but he received so severe a check full in the teeth as he did so, that he stopped short, and shook his head with rage and pain.

"Well struck," cried the villagers, "Black d.i.c.k has met his match!"

Coolness and self-possession will always tell in a combat of this sort.

The temper once lost, the conflict within tells more against the combatant than the blows of his adversary. Every available function is over-exerted and blind rage baffles the skill.

Thus it was with the bulky forester. Strong drink and violent anger rendered him tremulous as he fought. He dealt his blows thick as hail, most maliciously, and without any regard to the rules of such a combat.

He would have killed his opponent if he could, and so young Shakespeare found, and dealt with him accordingly, quite aware that the slightest mistake on his own part would result in his either being killed or lamed for life. The youth, who in reality possessed greater strength than his appearance seemed to warrant, kept well away from the shower of blows, till his antagonist was completely out of breath. He then stood more up to him, returned his blows with interest, and at length dealt him so severe a stroke on the head, that the forester reeled under the shock and almost fell.

Nothing but his own consummate skill could, however, have saved young Shakespeare up to this time from the fury of his antagonist. Nothing now but his own chivalrous feeling could have saved his antagonist from a severer lesson than he actually received at his hands.

The blow he gave the forester, and which struck him on the head, for the moment placed him at his mercy. The strong ruffian reeled and nearly fell, and as he still endeavoured to smite furiously with his weapon, it flew out of his hand, and he was at the mercy of his antagonist, who immediately dropped the end of his staff upon the ground, and waited for him to recover it.

At this moment several of the forester's comrades, who had been shooting at a target at the edge of the Green, attracted by the sound of the fray, came up. They were enraged at beholding the discomfiture of their companion, whose opponent they seemed inclined to handle roughly; and the villagers immediately taking part with Shakespeare, a general fight ensued, and with the true English bull-dog resolution, blows with fist and stick resounded on all sides. Master Grasp was overturned and trod under foot, swearing action and imprisonment against all and sundry the combatants. Master Dismal was fain to betake himself to flight, and Doubletongue said, as he made off also, that such a scene was a scandal to the whole country; whilst the village maidens, in a state of alarm, stood looking on at a distance, and calling to their lovers, cousins, and brothers, to desist for the love of heaven and their own sweet sakes.

In short, such was the rage of the combatants,--the keepers being for the most part Gloucestershire men, and objects of dislike to the Shottery lads,--that it seemed more than probable lives would be lost ere the matter ended.

In the midst of the fray, however, a stately-looking man, mounted upon a large grey horse, accompanied by a couple of cavaliers, and attended by half-a-dozen serving-men, or falconers, rode up to the scene of action.

The badge worn upon the arms of the attendants bore the same device as that upon the coats of several of the foresters engaged, being three white lucies, or pike-fish, and the spectators immediately recognised Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote.

No sooner did the knight observe the nature of the business in hand, and his own people engaged, than he clapped spurs to his horse, and dashing into the midst of the fray, called, in a voice of thunder, to the combatants to desist, overturning at the same time, with the shoulder of his horse, the two first persons he came in contact with.

"Give me the names, Huntsman," he said, turning to the man who seemed his own particular attendant, "of all in my service engaged in this disgraceful riot. Now, I will not only discharge, but punish them severely!"

"May so please your honour," said one of the foresters, "we are not altogether so much in fault as you may imagine. One of our comrades hath been a.s.sailed and beaten, and we did but take his part here, when all set upon us."

"And what do you here at all, caitiffs?" said Sir Thomas, "when ye should be in your walk in Fulbrook Park. Whilst such fellows as you dance and fight at wakes and fairs, my park is broken, and my game killed and carried off."

"We came but in to-day to drink your honour's health, hearing you had given a sheep for the revels," said the chop-fallen keeper.

"You shall drink the health of another employer henceforth," said the knight; "and who is the person you say hath beaten your fellow?"

"A youth, who hath more than once done the like," said the keeper; "one whom I myself have oft-times caught in our Woods and warrens, and as continually warned off."

"His name?" said Sir Thomas. "Let me know his name, and I will take sharp measures with him an I catch him."

"Shakespeare," said the keeper; "he hath beaten me myself some time back."

"Shakespeare!" said Sir Thomas, "'tis well. I will remember. Hath the fellow no Christian name?"

"William, your honour," said the forester; "the elder son of John Shakespeare, of Stratford."

"William Shakespeare!" said Sir Thomas, with emphasis. "'Tis well. Now point this William Shakespeare out to me, if he be present on the Green."