THE COTSWOLDS THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
Nowadays, thanks in a great measure to Mr. Madden's book, the "Diary of
Master William Silence," it is beginning to dawn on us that the
Cotswolds are more or less connected with the great poet of
Stratford-on-Avon.
Mr. Blunt, in his "Cotswold Dialect," gives no less than fifty-eight
passages from the works of Shakespeare, in which words and phrases
peculiar to the district are made use of. Up to the reign of Queen Anne
this vast open tract of downland formed a happy hunting ground for the
inhabitants of all the surrounding counties. Warwickshire, Oxfordshire,
and Wiltshire, as well as Gloucestershire folk repaired to the wolds for
hunting, coursing, hawking, and other amusements; and in olden times,
even more than to-day, Cotswold was, as Burton described it, "a type of
what is most commodious for hawking, hunting, wood, waters, and all
manner of pleasures." There never was a district so well adapted for
stag-hunting. Nowadays the Cotswold district falls short in one
desideratum, and that a most essential one, of being a first-rate
hunting country. The large extent of ploughed land and the extreme
dryness and poverty of the soil cause it on four days out of five to
carry a most indifferent scent. But to-day we pursue the fox; in
Shakespeare's time the stag was the quarry. And, as hunting men are well
aware, the scent given off by a stag is not only ravishing to hounds,
but it actually increases as the quarry tires, whilst that from a fox
"grows small by degrees and beautifully less."
As with hunting, so also with coursing and hawking; the Cotswolds were
the grand centre of Elizabethan sport. Here it was that Shakespeare
marked the falcon "waiting on and towering in her pride of place." Here
he saw the fallow greyhounds competing for the silver-studded collar.
What an interest and a dignity does a district such as this draw from
even the slenderest association with the splendid name of William
Shakespeare! For my part I freely confess that scenery, however grand
and sublime, appeals but little to the imagination unless it be hallowed
by association or blended in the thoughts with the recollection of those
we have either loved or admired. Thus in India, in Natal and Cape
Colony, in glorious Ceylon, I could admire those wonderful purple
mountains and that tropical luxuriance of fertility and verdure; but I
could not _feel_ them. The boundless wolds of Africa, reminding one so
much of Gloucestershire, yet far grander and far finer than anything of
the kind in England, were to me a dreary wilderness. Passing through the
fine broken hill country of Natal was like visiting chaos, a waste,
inhospitable land,
"Where no one comes
Or hath come since the making of the world."
How well I remember the first sight of the wolds of South Africa! It was
the hour of uncertain light that comes before the dawn; and as our
railway train wound its tortuous course like a snake up the awful
heights that would ultimately end in Majuba Hill--to which ill-fated
spot I was bound--the billowy waves of rolling down seemed gradually to
change to an immensely rough ocean running mountains high, and the
mimosa trees dotting the plain for hundreds of miles appeared like
armies of the souls of all the black men that ever lived on earth since
the world began. There were passes and chasms like the portals of
far-off, inaccessible Paradise,
"With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms."
And then the scene changed. The hills rose like graves of white men and
barrows to the long-forgotten dead. Great oblong barrows, round Celtic
barrows, and stately sarcophagi. Monumental effigies in alabaster,
granite and porphyry; grim Gothic castles dating back to the foundation
of the world, and grim Gothic cathedrals with long-drawn aisles, where
the "great organ of Eternity" kept thundering ceaselessly. For the
lightning and the thunder are powers to be reckoned with in those awful
realms of chaos. And then the scene changed again. There suddenly uprose
weird shapes of giants and leviathans, huge mammoths and whole regiments
of fantastic monsters that looked like clouds and yet were mountains;
and there were fortresses and towers of silence, with vultures hovering
over them, and cliffs and crags and jutting promontories that looked
like mountains, but were really clouds: for the black clouds and the
frowning hills were so much alike that, save when the lightning shone,
you could not say where the sky ended and the land began. But there was
one gleam of hope in this weird and dismal scene, for on the farthest
verge of the horizon there appeared, as it were, a lake--such a lake as
saw the passing of Arthur, vanishing in mystery and silently floating
away upon a barge towards the east. It was a lake of beryl, whose
far-off golden shores were set with rubies and sardonyx, and beyond
these, again, were the more distant waters of the silver sea; and as
when Sir Bedivere
"... saw,
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,
Down that long water opening on the deep
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
From less to less and vanish into light.
And the new sun rose bringing the new year,--"
so over the plains of Africa rose the mighty Alchemist and great
revealer of truth, the scatterer of dreary darkness and secret night,
turning those shadowy hills to purple and those mystic waters in the
eastern sky to gold.
How different are our feelings when we traverse, either in reality or in
fancy, such parts of the earth as are deeply blended in our hearts and
minds with old familiar associations! Whilst wandering through the Lake
District of England, how are we reminded of Wordsworth and the
"Excursion"! How can we visit Devonshire and the West Country without
summoning up pleasant thoughts of Charles Kingsley and Amyas Leigh; of
the men of Bideford, Sir Richard Grenville, Kt., and "The little
Revenge"? How vividly do the Trossachs recall "The Lady of the Lake" and
Walter Scott! How with Edinburgh do we connect the sad story of Mary,
the ill-fated queen! At Killarney, or standing amid the Gothic tracery
of Tintern, how do we think on Alfred Tennyson and "the days that are no
more"! These are only a few of the places in the British Isles that by
universal consent are hallowed by tender associations. Of those spots in
England which are dear to our hearts for personal reasons, there are of
course hundreds. Every man has his own peculiar prejudices in this
respect. To some London is the most sacred spot on earth. And who shall
deny that with all her faults London is not a vastly interesting place?
Is not every street hallowed by its associations with some great name or
some great event in English history? Which of us can stand amid the
Gothic tracery and the crumbling cloisters of Westminster, or under the
shadow of the old grey towers of Whitehall, without recalling
heart-stirring scenes and "paths of glory that lead but to the grave"?
Who can stand unmoved on any of the famous bridges that span the silent
river? Dr. Johnson, who acted up to Pope's well-known motto,
"The proper study of mankind is man,"
thought Fleet Street the most interesting place on the face of the
earth; and perhaps he was right. Let us hear what he has to say about
this halo of old association: "To abstract the mind from all local
emotion would be impossible if it were endeavoured; and would be foolish
if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses;
whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the
present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and
from my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent
and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery,
or virtue."
This, then, is the difference between the plains of Africa and the hills
and valleys of England. The one is at present a vast inhospitable chaos,
the other a land in which there is scarcely an acre that has not been
dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. Such are the signs by which we
are to distinguish Cosmos from Chaos.
How far into the Cotswold Hills the halo of Stratford-on-Avon's glory
may be said to extend it is not easy to determine. Let us allow at all
events that the _reflection_ from the arc reaches across the whole
extent of the wolds as far as Dursley. For here on the western edge of
the Cotswolds it is probable that Shakespeare spent that portion of his
life which has always been involved in obscurity--the interval between
his removal from Warwickshire and his arrival in London.
On a fine autumnal evening in the year 1592 a horseman, mounted on a
little ambling nag, neared the Cotswold village of Bibury. Both man and
steed showed unmistakable signs of weariness. The horse especially,
though of that wiry kind known as the Irish hobby, hard as iron, and
accustomed to long journeys, evinced by that sober and even dejected
expression of countenance so well known to hunting men, that he had been
ridden both far and fast. The saddle too, as well as the legs, chest,
and flanks of the nag, appeared wet and mud-stained, as if some brook
had been swum or some deep and muddy river forded, whilst the left
shoulder and knee of the rider bore marks which told tales of a fall.
The personal appearance of the man was not such as to excite the
interest of the casual passer-by; for his dress, though extremly neat,
was that worn by clerks and other townsfolk of the day; yet a keen
observer might have noticed that the features were those of a man of
uncommon character, in whom, as Carlyle would have said, a germ of
irrepressible force had been implanted.
It had indeed been a glorious day. The hounds, after meeting close to
Moreton-in-the-Marsh, in Warwickshire, had found a great hart in the
forest near Seizincote, and had hunted him "at force" over the deep
undrained vale up on to the Cotswold Hills, away past Stow-on-the-Wold
and Bourton-on-the-Water, towards the great woods of Chedworth. But the
stag, after crossing the Windrush close to Mr. Dutton's house at
Sherborne, had failed to make his point, and had "taken soil" in a deep
pool of the river Coln, near the little village of Coln-St-Dennis, where
eventually the mort had sounded. Such a run had not been seen for many a
long day; for it measured no less than fourteen miles "as the crow
flies," and about five-and-twenty as the hounds ran. The time occupied
had been close on seven hours. There had of course been several checks;
but so strong had been the scent of this hart that, in spite of two
"lets" of some twenty minutes' duration, the pack had been able to hunt
their quarry to the bitter end. Only two men had seen the end. The pride
and chivalry of Warwickshire, mounted on their high-priced Flanders
mares, their Galway nags, and their splendid Barbaries, had been
hopelessly thrown out of the chase; and besides the huntsman, on his
plain-bred little English horse, the only remnant of the field was our
friend with his tough and wiry Irish hobby.
It is five o'clock, and the sun as it disappears beyond a high ridge of
the wolds, is tinging the grey walls of an ancient Gothic fane with a
rosy glow. This our sportsman does not fail to notice; but in spite of
his keen appreciation of the beauties of nature, the question uppermost
in his mind, as he jogs along the rough, uneven road or track which
leads to Bibury, is where to spend the night. The thought of returning
home at that late hour does not enter his head; for the stag having
gone away in exactly the opposite direction to that from which the
Warwickshire man had set out early in the morning, there are no less
than three-and-thirty long and weary miles between the hunter and his
home. In the days of good Queen Bess, however, hospitality was
proverbially free, and any decently set up Englishman was tolerably sure
of a welcome at any of the country houses which were then, as now,
scattered at long intervals over this wild, uncultivated district. And
as he rides round a bend in the valley, a fair manor house comes into
view, pleasantly placed in a sheltered spot hard by the River Coln. It
was built in the style which had just come into vogue--the Elizabethan
form of architecture; and in honour of the reigning monarch its front
presented the appearance of the letter E. The windows, instead of being
made of horn, were of glass; and tall stone chimneys (a modern luxury
but lately invented) carried away the smoke from the chambers within.
It so happened that at the moment the stranger was passing, the owner of
the house--a squire of some sixty years of age, but hale and hearty--was
standing in front of his porch taking the evening air. This fact the
horseman did not fail to notice, and with a ready eye to the main
chance, which showed its possessor to be a man of no ordinary
apprehension, he glanced approvingly at the groined porch, the richly
carved pinnacles above it, and at the quaint belfry beyond, exclaiming
with great enthusiasm:
"'Fore God, you have a goodly dwelling and a rich here. I do envy thee
thine house, sir."
"Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all," [8] was the reply,
to which, after a pause, the squire added, "Marry, good air."
[Footnote 8: _2 Henry IV_, V. iii.]
"Ah, 'tis a good air up on these wolds," replied the sportsman. "But I
am a stranger here in Gloucestershire; these high wild hills and rough,
uneven ways draw out our miles and make them wearisome.[9] How far is it
to Stratford?"
[Footnote 9: _King Richard II._, II. iii.]
"Marry, 'tis nigh on forty mile, I warrant. Thou'll not see Stratford
to-night, sir; thy horse is wappered[10] out, and that I plainly see."
[Footnote 10: _Wappered_ = tired. A Cotswold word.]
To him replied the stranger wearily:
Where is the horse that doth untread again
His tedious measures with the unbated fire
That he did pace them first? All things that are,
Are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.[11]
[Footnote 11: _Merchant of Venice_, II. vi.]
"Hast been with the hounds to-day?" enquired the honest squire.
"Ah, sir, and that I have," was the reply; "and never have I seen such
sport before. For seven long hours they made the welkin ring, and ran
like swallows o'er the plain." [12]
[Footnote 12: _Titus Andronicus_, II. ii.]
"Please to step in; we be just a-settin' down to supper--a cold capon
and a venison pasty. I'll tell my serving man to take thy nag to yonder
yard, and make him comfortable for the night."
"Thanks, sir, I'll take him round myself, and give the honest beast a
drench of barley broth,[13] and afterwards, to cheer him up a bit, a
handful or two of dried peas." [14]
[Footnote 13: _Henry V_., III. v.]
[Footnote 14: _Midsummer Night's Dream_, IV. i.]
Whilst the hunter was seeing to his nag, the squire thus addressed his
serving man:
"Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton,
and any pretty tiny kickshaws, tell William cook." [15]
[Footnote 15: 2 _Henry IV_., V. i.]
DAVY: "Doth the hunter stay all night, sir?"
SQUIRE: "Yes, Davy. I will use him well; good sportsmen are ever welcome
on Cotswold."
The wants of the Irish hobby having been thoroughly attended to, and the
game little fellow having recovered in some measure his natural gaiety
of spirits, the squire ushered the stranger into a long low hall, hung
with pikes and guns and bows, and relics of the chase as well as of the
wars. The stone floor was strewed with clean rushes, and lying about on
tables were trashes, collars, and whips for hounds, as well as hoods,
perches, jesses, and bells for hawks; whilst a variety of odds and ends,
such as crossbows and jumping-poles, were scattered about the apartment.
An enormous wood fire blazed at one end of the hall, and in the
inglenook sat a girl of some twenty summers.
"My daughter, sir," exclaimed the squire; "as good a girl as ever lived
to make a cheese, brew good beer, preserve all sorts of wines, and cook
a capon with a chaudron! Marry! I forgot to ask thee thy name?"
"Oh, my name is Shakespeare--William Shakespeare, sir. I come from
Stratford-on-the-Avon, up to'rds Warwick."
"Shakespy, Shakespy; a' don't know that name. Dost bear arms, sir?"
"I am entitled to them--a spear on a bend sable, and a falcon for my
crest; but we have not yet applied to the heralds for the confirmation.
And you, sir?"
"He writes himself _armigero_ in any bill, warrant, quittance, or
obligation," here put in Davy the serving man.
"Ah, that I do! and have done any time these three hundred years."
"All his successors gone before him hath done it; and all his ancestors
that come after him may," added Davy, with pride.
"To be sure, to be sure," said the squire. "Well, welcome to Cotswold,
Master Shakespeare; good sportsmen are ever welcome on Cotswold. But
tell me, how didst thou get thy downfall?"
"The first was at the mound into the tyning by Master Blackett's house
at Iccomb; old Dobbin breasted it, and the stones did rattle round mine
ears like a house a-coming down. We made a shard[16] that let the rest
of 'em through. It was the only wall that came in the way of the chase
to-day. The second downfall was at the brook by Bourton-Windrush, I
think they call it. Dobbin being a bit short of wind, and quilting
sadly, stuck fast in the mire, and tumbled on to his nose in scrambling
out. Marry, sir, but 'twas a famous chase; the like of it I never saw
before. 'Twas grand at first to see the hart unharboured--a stag with
all his rights, 'brow, bay, and trey.'"
[Footnote 16: A Cotswold word = breach.]
"Thou shouldst know, our hounds at Warwick are a noted pack,
So flew'd, so sanded, and their beads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-knee'd, and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells,
Each under each. A cry more tuneable
Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn.'" [17]
[Footnote 17: _Midsummer Night's Dream_, IV. i.]
Then he told how, after leaving behind the deep undrained grass country
round Moreton-in-the-Marsh, they rose the hills by Stow and came across
the moor. How the riders who spurred their horses up the steep uprising
ascent were soon left behind. For
"To climb steep hills
Requires slow pace at first; anger is like
A full hot horse, who, being allowed his way,
Self mettle tires him."
He told how, after an hour's steady running over the wolds, a "let" [18]
occurred, and "the hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt";[19]
how Mountain, Fury, Tyrant, and Ringwood, who had been leading the rest
of the pack, strove in vain for a considerable time to pick out the cold
scent, until suddenly the cheery sound of the old huntsman's voice was
heard crying:
[Footnote 18: _Two Noble Kinsmen_, III. v.]
[Footnote 19: _Venus and Adonis_, 692.]
"Fury! Fury! There, Tyrant, there! Hark! Hark!" [20]
and the whole pack went "yoppeting" off as happy as the hunt was long.
He told how Belman fairly surpassed himself, and "twice to-day picked
out the dullest scent";[21] and how little Dobbin, the Irish hobby, went
cantering on "as true as truest horse, that yet would never tire." [22]
He told how, after running from scent to view, they came down into the
woodlands of the valley of the Coln, and awoke the echoes with their
"gallant chiding."
[Footnote 20: _Tempest_, IV, i.]
[Footnote 21: _Taming of the Shrew_, Introduction.]
[Footnote 22: _Midsummer Night's Dream_, III. i.]
"... besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seem'd all one mutual cry: I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder." [23]
[Footnote 23: _Midsummer Night's Dream_, IV.]
And how the noble animal took soil in the Coln,
"Under an oak whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:
To the which place our poor sequester'd stag
Did come to languish; and indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heaved forth such groans
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting, and the big round tears
Coursed one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase.
Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends,
''Tis right,' quoth he: 'thus misery doth part
The flux of company': anon a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,
And never stays to greet him. 'Ah,' quoth Jaques,
'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'" [24]
[Footnote 24: _As You Like It_, II. i.]
And finally he told how the gallant beast died a soldier's death,
fighting to the bitter end.
"Marry, 'twas a right good chase, and bravely must thy steed have borne
thee. But thou wast too venturesome, Master Shakespeare," exclaimed the
squire, "a-trying to jump that mound into the tyning by Master
Blackett's house."
"Tell me, I prithee," answered Shakespeare, anxious to turn the
conversation from his own share in the day's proceedings, "whose dog won
the silver-studded collar this year in the coursing matches on
Cotswold?" [25]
[Footnote 25: _Merry Wives of Windsor_,]
"Our Bill Peregrine, here, at the farm, carried it off. A prettier bit
of coursing I never did see!"
"Ah! that was the country fellow that turned up when we sounded the mort
by Col-Dene. He seemed to spring up out of the ground. He is a snapper
up of unconsidered trifles, I'll be bound. The fellow claimed the hide:
he said the skin was the keeper's fee." [26]
[Footnote 26: 3 _Henry VI_, III. i.]
"That 'ould be he. I warrant he lent a hand in taking assay and
breaking up the deer. Tis just what he enjoys."
"Ah! I marked him disembowelling the poor dead beast in right good will,
with hands besmeared with blood." [27]
[Footnote 27: _Henry IV._, V. iv.]
Then they fell to talking of other things; and the honest old squire
began to brag about his London days, and how he was once of
Clement's Inn.
"There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George
Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man; you had
not four such swinge-bucklers in all the Inns o' Court again." [28]
[Footnote 28: _Henry IV._, III. ii.]
But the old man was far too interested in his own doings to ask if his
guest had ever been in London. It is the prerogative of age to take for
granted that all younger men are of no account, and even as children,
"to be seen and not heard."
"To-morrow," said the squire, "at break of day, we be a-going a-birding,
to try some young falcons Bill Peregrine has lately trained. Wilt join
us, Master Shakespeare?"
"Ah, that I will, sir! I know a hawk from a handsaw, or my name's not
William Shakespeare."
By this time the cold capon and the venison pasty, as well as the
"little tiny kickshaws," together with a gallon of "good sherris-sack,"
had been considerably reduced by the united efforts of the squire, the
famished hunter, and those below the salt. During the meal such scraps
of conversation as this might have been heard:
"Will you please to take a bit of bacon, Master Shakespeare?"
"Not any, I thank you," replied the poet.
"What, no bacon!" put in the serving man from behind, in a voice of
surprise bordering on disappointment.
"No bacon for me, I thank you; _I never take bacon_," repeated
Shakespeare, with some emphasis.
Then the master of the house would occasionally address a remark to his
serving man about the farm, such as, "How a good yoke of bullocks at
Ciren Fair?" or, "How a score of ewes now?" meaning how much are they
worth. Once the serving man took the initiative, asking, "Shall we sow
the headlands with wheat?" receiving the reply, "With red wheat,
Davy." [29]
[Footnote 29: 2 _Henry IV_, V. i.]
Then there was some discussion concerning the stopping of William's
(Peregrine's?) wages, "About the sack he lost the other day at
Hinckley Fair."
SHAKESPEARE: "This Davy serves you for good uses; he is your serving man
and your husbandman."
SQUIRE: "A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet.... By the
mass, I have drunk too much sack at supper! A good varlet." [30]
[Footnote 30: 2 _Henry IV_, V. iii.]
These were the squire's last words that night. He soon slept peacefully,
as was his wont after his evening meal; whereupon the poet, with his
accustomed gallantry, commenced making love in right good earnest to the
fair daughter of the house.
The Cotswold girls, like the Irish, have always been famous for their
beauty. Even amongst the peasants you may nowadays see the most
beautiful and graceful women in the world, though their attire is
usually of a plain and unbecoming character, and but ill adapted to set
off the features and form of the wearer. The squire's daughter, whom we
will call Jessica, was no exception to the rule. She was a handsome
brunette--indeed, the squire called her a "black ousel." Shakespeare
fell in love with her at once, and, forgetting all about the family at
Stratford, he plunged into the most desperate flirtation. The girl, with
that natural perception of the divine in man common to her sex, could
not help feeling a strange admiration for this unexpected, though not
unwelcome, guest. There was something about his countenance which
exercised a peculiar charm and fascination. The thoughtful brow, the
keen hazel eye, and the gentle bearing of the man were what at first
attracted attention. But it was his manner and speech, half serious and
half mirthful, which made such an impression on her mind; and perhaps
she felt that, "to the face whose beauty is the harmony between that
which speaks from within and the form through which it speaks, power is
added by all that causes the outer man to bear more deeply the impress
of the inner."
The surroundings, too, were as romantic as they possibly could be. A
pair of rush candles were shedding their dim light through the long low
oak-panelled apartment; they were the only lights that were burning, and
even these flickered ominously at times, as if threatening to go out and
leave the place in total darkness. A full moon, however, was casting her
silvery beams through the great lattice casement, and in one of the
upper panes of this window were richly emblazoned the arms of which the
squire was so proud.
It was a glorious evening. Opening the window, William Shakespeare
looked out upon the peaceful garden. The moon was shedding a pale light
upon the woods and the stream, "decking with liquid pearl the bladed
grass." A hundred yards away the silent Coln was gliding slowly onwards
towards the sea. Owls were breathing heavily in the hanging wood, and a
pair of otters were hunting in the pool.
As the two sat by the open window, the poet's own life and its prospects
formed the principal topic of conversation. After years of toil in
London his fortunes were beginning at length to improve. He was manager
of a theatre, and was at length earning a moderate competency. He had
already saved a little money, and hoped soon to buy a house at
Stratford. He looked forward some day to returning to his native place
and living a country life. At present he was enjoying a short holiday,
the first for over a year.
As they sat and talked over these matters, a minstrel began to play in
one of the cottages of the village; the sound of the harp added another
charm to the peaceful surroundings, and filled the poet's mind with a
strange delight.
"I am never merry when I hear sweet music," said Jessica.
Whereupon her companion replied:
"' ... soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.'" [31]
[Footnote 31: _Merchant of Venice_, V. i.]
Sweet is the sound of soft melodious music on a moonlight night; sweet
the faint sigh of the breeze among the elms, and the light upon the
silent stream; but sweeter far is music on a moonlight night, sweeter
the faint sigh of the breeze, and the light upon the silent stream, when
hope, renewed after years of sorrow and sadness, flatters once again the
aims and objects of youth, gilding the landscape of life with wondrous
alchemy, shedding rays of happy sunshine on the vague, mysterious
yearnings of the soul of man towards the hidden destinies of the
boundless future.
It was not long, however, before Shakespeare bade the fair Jessica
good-night and retired to his sleeping apartment; for a run of such
uncommon excellence as he had enjoyed that day was calculated to produce
the tired, though not unpleasant, sensation which even now sends the
hunting man sleepy, though happy, to bed.
So, lulled by the strains of the minstrel's harp did William Shakespeare
seek his couch and sleep the sleep of the just But even while the body
was wrapped in slumber, the highly wrought, powerful mind, though yet
unconscious of its awful destiny, was hard at work, "moving about in
worlds not realised." Yonder on the turret of that grey Gothic castle,
whose pinnacles point ever upwards to the skies, they stand and wait, a
glorious throng; and as they stand they wave him onwards. Dante, Homer,
Virgil, Chaucer, Plutarch, Montaigne, and many another hero of old is
waiting there. See the sharp-pointed features of the Italian bard, and
Homer no longer blind! The two are holding animated converse, and ever
beckoning him on. And a voice seemed to speak out loud and clear amid
the solemn silence of eternity:
"Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,
Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd
But to fine issues." [32]
[Footnote 32: _Measure for Measure_, I. i.]
Can he linger? Away with blank misgivings, fears, and doubts! He will
climb the rugged, steep ascent, and follow even unto the end.
The following morning a little before sunrise saw a party of five
assembled for a hawking expedition on the downs. Besides the squire and
William Shakespeare, the parson had turned up, whilst Bill Peregrine
(ancestor of all the Peregrines, including, no doubt, the famous
Peregrine Pickle) brought one of his brothers from the farm to "help him
out" with the hawks. It was somewhat of a peculiar dawn--one of those
dull grey mornings which often bodes a fine day. The bard was much
interested in the glowing eastern sky, and as the sun began to appear he
turned to William Peregrine and enthusiastically exclaimed:
"'.... what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.'" [33]
[Footnote 33: _Romeo and Juliet_, III. v.]
"To be sure, to be sure, it do look a bit comical, don't it?" answered
the yeoman, with a cackle; and then, turning to his brother, he said,
"Ain't 'e ever seen the sun rise before?"
"Please, squire, who be the gent from Warwickshire?" says Peregrine,
_sotto voce_; "I cannot tell what the dickens his name is!"
"Oh! 'is name's Shakespy, William Shakespy. A good un at his books, I'll
be bound. Get the hawks, Bill; the sun be up. A' must be off to
Stratford shortly," answered the squire, glancing at the poet.
Whereupon the yeoman opened the door of a long covered shed commonly
called the "mews," and shortly appeared again with four hooded
hawks--two falcons, and two males or tiercel-gentles--placed on a wooden
frame or cadge. These he handed to a stout yokel to carry, and the whole
party sallied forth towards the downs. The squire and the parson were
mounted on their palfreys, the rest of the party being on foot.
It was not long before William Peregrine started an interesting
conversation with the stranger somewhat after this manner:
"Did you 'ave a pretty good day's spart yesterday, Master Quakespear?"
"Ah, that we had! I never saw such a day's sport in all my life!"
"I thought ye did. I could see the 'art was tired smartish. I qeum along
by the bruk, and give un the meeting. When I sees un I says, 'I can see
you've 'ad a smartish doing, old boy.' Then the 'ounds qeum yoppeting
along as nice as could be. Then I sees you and the 'untsman lolloping
along arter the dogs, and soon arter I 'urd the trumpets goin'; and so
says I, 'It's a _case_,' and I qeums up and skins un. 'E did skin
beautiful to be sure! I never see a better job in all my life--never!"
"'Twas a fine hart," replied Shakespeare, "and no dull and muddy-mettled
rascal!" [34]
[Footnote 34: _Hamlet_, II. ii.]
"I be fond of a bit of spart like that," continued Peregrine; "but I
never could away with books and larning. Muddling work, I calls it,
messing over books. Do you care for that kind of stuff, Master
Quakespear?"
"I dabble in it when I am away from the country," was the reply.
Then the Warwickshire man began soliloquising again, somewhat after this
manner:
"'In his brain
He hath strange places crammed with observation,
The which he vents in mangled forms.'" [35]
[Footnote 35: _As you Like It_ vii.]
"Drat the fellow!" whispered Peregrine, turning to the parson, who
happened to be riding alongside "I don't like un, 'e's so unkit."
PARSON: "What makes him talk so, William?"
PEREGRINE (_touching his forehead_): "It's a case; I'll be bound it's a
case. 'E's unkit."
"Would you mind saying that again, sir," said the bard, producing a
notebook.
Peregrine goes into a fit of giggling, so Shakespeare writes down from
memory; whereupon the yeoman makes up to the squire, and says, "Hist,
squire, we must 'ave a care; 'e's takin' notes 'o anything we says. 'Tis
my belief 'e's got to do with that 'ere case of Tom Barton's they're
makin' such a fuss and do about at Coln. We shall all be 'ung for a set
o' sheep-stealing ruffians."
"Thee be quite right, William," put in the parson "I thought a' looked a
bit suspicious. If I was you, squire, I'd clap the baggage into
Northleach gaol, and exercise the justice of the peace agin un for an
idle varmint."
"Yet a milder mannered man I never saw," said the squire.
PARSON: "Mild-mannered fiddlestick!" Then, raising his voice so that the
stranger should get the full benefit, he added, "He's as mild a mannered
man as ever scuttled ship or cut a throat!"
Shakespeare hurriedly draws out notebook, and smilingly writes down the
parson's words; then, in perfect good humour, he says:
"You must excuse me, gentlemen, but I have somewhat of a passion for
writing down such sayings as suit my humour, lest I forget what good
company I keep."
SQUIRE (_excitedly_): "Let go the hawk, Tom; there's a great lanky
heron risin' at the withybed yonder."
And here it is necessary to say something about the methods and language
of falconry as practised by our forefathers.
Shakespeare tells us to choose "a falcon or tercel for flying at the
brook, and a hawk for the bush." In other words, we are to select the
nobler species, the long-winged peregrine falcon, the male of which was
called a tiercel-gentle, for flying at the heron or the mallard; and a
short-winged hawk, such as the goshawk or sparrow-hawk, for blackbirds
and other hedgerow birds. For as Mr. Madden explains, not only does the
true falcon, be she peregrine, gerfalcon, merlin, or hobby, differ in
size and structure of wing and beak from the short-winged hawks, but she
also differs in her method of hunting and seizing her prey.
The falcons are "hawks of the tower and lure." They tower aloft and
swoop down on partridge, rabbit, or heron, finally returning to the
lure; and be it noted that the lure is a sham bird, with a "train" of
food to entice the falcons back to their master.
The short-winged hawks, on the other hand, are birds of the fist or the
bush. Instead of "towering" and "stooping," they lurch after their prey
in wandering flight, finally returning to their master's fist.
In _Macbeth_ we find allusion to the "falcon towering in her pride of
place"; and indeed there is no prettier sport on a still day than a
flight at the partridge or the heron with the noble peregrine falcon or
her mate the tiercel-gentle.
At the honest squire's word of command, a male peregrine is forthwith
despatched, and, soaring upwards into the air, he is almost lost to
sight in the clouds, though the faint tinkling of the bells attached to
his feet may yet be heard; then, stooping from the skies, the
tiercel-gentle descends from the heavens and strikes his long-beaked
adversary. Down, down they come, fighting and struggling in the air,
until, exhausted by the unequal combat, the heron gradually falls to the
ground, and receives from the falconer his final _coup de grâce_.
Sometimes a pair of hawks are thrown off against a heron.
Now comes a flight at the partridge. First of all the spaniel is
despatched to search the fields for a covey of birds. The desired quarry
being found, he "points" to them, and this time the female peregrine or
true falcon is sent on her way. Away she soars upwards, "waiting on and
towering in her pride of place." Then the birds, lying like stones
beneath her savage ken, are flushed by the dog, and the cruel peregrine,
after selecting her bird, with her characteristic "swoop" brings it to
the ground. If she is unsuccessful in her first attempt, she will tower
again, and renew the attack. The riders have to gallop as fast as their
nags can go, if they would keep in with the sport, for as often as not a
mile or more of ground has to be covered in a long flight, ere the
falcon "souses" [36] her prey. After the flight, a well-trained falcon
will invariably return to the lure with its "train" of food.
[Footnote 36: _King John_. V. ii.]
As Mr. Madden has proved, the whole of Shakespeare's works teem with
allusions to the art of falconry.
"HENRY: But what a point, my lord, your falcon made,
And what a pitch she flew above the rest!
To see how God in all His creatures works!
Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high.
SUFFOLK: No marvel, an it like your majesty,
My lord protector's hawks do tower so well;
They know their master loves to be aloft
And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch.
GLOUCESTER: My lord, 'tis but a base ignoble mind
That mounts no higher than a bird can soar." [37]
[Footnote 37: 2 _Henry VI_., II. i.]
But it was not the death of the poor partridge that appealed to the
poet's mind so much as the pride and cunning of the mighty peregrine,
and the beauty and stillness of the autumnal morning. He loved to hear
the faint tinkling of the falcon's bells, the homely cry of the plover,
and the sweet carol of the lark; but more than all he felt the mystery
of the downs, wondering by what power and when those old seas were
converted into a sea of grass.
But whilst the hawking party was moving slowly across the wolds to try
fresh ground an event occurred which had the effect of bringing the
morning's sport, as far as hawks were concerned, to an abrupt
conclusion. This was nothing more nor less than the sight of a great
Cotswold fox of the greyhound breed making his way towards a copse on
the squire's demesne. The quick eye of the Peregrine family was the
first to view him, and forthwith both Bill and his brother screamed in
unison: "What's that sneaking across Smoke Acre yonder? 'Tis a fox--a
great, lanky, thieving, villainous fox, darned if it ain't!"
"Where?" said parson and squire excitedly.
"There," said Peregrine, "over agin Smoke Acre."
"By jabbers, so it be!" said the parson. "Now look thee here, Joe
Peregrine, go thee to the sexton and tell 'un to ring the church bells
for the folks to come for a fox; and be sure and tell the
churchwardens."
"Ah!" said the poet, almost as excited as the rest of the party,
"'And do not stand on quillets how to slay him:
Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety,
Sleeping or waking, 'tis no matter how,
So he be dead.'" [38]
[Footnote 38: _2 Henry VI._, III. i.]
Thus abruptly ended this hawking expedition on the Cotswolds; for the
whole party made off to the manor house to fetch guns, spades, pickaxes,
and dogs, as was the custom in those days, when a "lanky, villainous
fox" was viewed.
As for Shakespeare, after bidding adieu to the old squire, and thanking
him for his hospitality, he mounted his game little Irish hobby and
steered his course due northward for Stow-on-the-Wold. His track lay
along the old Fossway, a road infested in those days by murderous
highwaymen; yet, unarmed and unattended, unknown and unappreciated, did
that mighty man of genius set cheerfully out on his long and
solitary way.
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