A REVEL AT CLOPTON.
On the night which followed the action we have described, and which the
inhabitants of Stratford long afterwards called the fray of the
Checquers, Sir Hugh Clopton held an old accustomed feast at his house.
The entertainment was given in honour of his daughter's birthday, the
maiden having just completed her seventeenth year; and on this
interesting occasion most of the old knightly families of the county of
Warwickshire graced the scene. There came the Astleys of Hill Moreton,
the De la Wards of Newton, the Clintons of Badsley, the Walshes of
Mereden, the Blenknaps of Knoll, the Wellesbourns of Hastang, the
Comptons of Compton Winyate, the Sheldons of Beoley, the Attwoods, and
many other nobles, whose names now, like those once owning them, in all
the pride of ancestral honours, are obliterated from the muster-roll of
the living, and long forgotten in the very domains which owned them as
lords; and last, though by no means least, came the knight of Charlecote
and his lady, and their two lovely daughters.
It was indeed a goodly assemblage of the rank, youth, and beauty of the
county of Warwick of that period. The old folks stately in manner and
formal in costume; the men, looking in their starch ruffs, short cloaks
and trunks, quaint cut doublets and peaked beards; and the women, in
their jewelled stomachers and farthingales, like so many old portraits
stepping forth from their frames; whilst the youth of both sexes, in all
the bravery of that age of brave attire, glittered in silks and satins,
gold and embroidery, bright jewels and richly mounted weapons. Nothing,
indeed, could exceed the gallant look of the cavaliers who trod a
measure in the dance, except it were the loveliness of their bright
partners. Those youthful and fresh female buds of England, so celebrated
for their native beauty; fair, and blooming, and swan-like in their
graceful carriage--"earth-treading stars, that make dark heaven bright."
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.
[Footnote 3: Schegel's estimate of Shakespeare.]
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!"
Walter sighed, and unconsciously his glance wandered in search of his
betrothed. "You are a shrewd observer, lady," he said, looking full in
her expressive face,--and indeed, except Charlotte Clopton, whose beauty
was of a different character, Clara de Mowbray was one of the most
beautiful women in the county. "You are a great observer, lady," he
said, "and yet you have failed to observe how much your own beauty
excites admiration from all present to-night. Nay, I am not blind
myself, however much I may lie under the imputation with which you have
charged me."
"To love is no such heavy sin, Sir Arderne," said the lady, "an if it
were so, you would indeed require sufficing penance and absolution,
since you are a very votary to the blind god."
"And she to whom my vows are given," he said, "is she not worthy of an
emperor's love?"
"She is worthy of the love of him who seeks her hand," said Clara,
somewhat sadly. "She is my dear and early friend, and I could not wish
greater happiness to her than in that store. Unless the emperor were
Walter Arderne, and the empire he inherited here in Warwickshire. I
conclude Charlotte would scarce become an empress."
"You speak not this as you think," said Arderne, doubtfully, yet
delighted at so much confirmation from one of the intimate friends of
his beloved Charlotte.
"I speak as I feel," said Clara; "I know the worth of both, and how
well both deserve; and yet methinks youth and valour should not
altogether succumb to Cupid. Were I a man, I should seek for action and
to be worthy in _deed_."
The youth gazed with increasing admiration upon the radiant face of the
lady. He almost doubted whether its exceeding loveliness did not equal
that of his betrothed.
"Ah," he said, gaily, turning towards his new friend, who at the moment
approached, "give us assurance, gentle Shakespeare, we that are in love;
and teach this lady to respect the passion."
Shakespeare looked full at the lady; he seemed struck with the beauty of
her face and form. "Love, first learned in a lady's eyes," he said,
gaily,
"Lives not alone immured in the brain;
But with the motion of all elements,
Courses as swift as thought in every power;
And gives to every power a double power,
Above their functions and their offices,
Never durst poet touch a pen to write,
Until his ink were temper'd with love's sighs."
"That is indeed a singular being!" said the lady, gazing after the youth
as he passed through the crowd and quitted the room. "Who and what is
he?"
"'Tis him of whom I just now spoke," said Arderne; "but come, let us
seek Charlotte Clopton; I thought I saw her leave the room but now to
seek the purer air of the gardens. I will tell thee more of our
acquaintance with this youth as we go."
It was a bright and lovely night, and, with all the freedom and licence
of the age, many of the younger guests had sought the pleasure-grounds
and gardens of the Hall, whilst their more staid guardians and parents
held converse within doors.
Here and there was to be seen a group seated or reclined upon the velvet
turf, whilst others paced up and down the terrace, or disappeared and
were lost in the dark walks, till the joyous strains of the orchestra
within again recalled them to the dance.
If the quick eyes of love had enabled the lady Clara to observe the
object to which Walter Arderne's thoughts were that night fixed, the
same observation had failed in shewing her on whom the affections of her
rival was centred.
Indeed, although Charlotte Clopton, both from her beauty and her
position as the heroine of the night, was necessarily the observed of
all observers, and her hand sought for by every cavalier in the room,
those who looked closely at her might have observed a tinge of
melancholy in her countenance, and a restlessness about her which shewed
she was not in the enjoyment of her own content. To herself hardly dared
she own it, as her restless glance traversed the room, but she felt that
one minute's conversation with her romantic friend,--nay, one word, or
but an exchanged glance,--would be worth all the gallant speeches she
endured from the gayer cavaliers by whom she was surrounded.
This new friend, however, had not once approached her on that night. He
had studiously kept in the background, and although he had, unobserved,
caught sight of her, he had even carefully avoided those parts of the
room in which she was engaged with her various partners and friends.
Nay, the pleasure he experienced in the gay and festive scene, like that
of the fair Charlotte, was tinged with an occasional melancholy; a soft
and dreamy sadness mingled with the brighter thoughts called into play
by the sight of beauty and the strains of music.
With such feelings he quitted the house, and passed into the gardens of
the Hall, those lovely grounds looking, as they did, so fair and soft,
in the bright moonlight. And how often do we find it thus in life! How
oft do we see the most worthy wending his way unnoticed, unobserved,
unappreciated, and unknown, whilst the giddy, the frivolous, the vain,
and even the vile, are sunning themselves in the smiles of patronage and
favour, playing their fantastic tricks, and swollen with the success
their cringing falsehood has attained, whilst patient merit, scorning
the rout, passes on unsought.
The night, as Lorenzo words it, was but the daylight sick, "it looked a
little paler." The youthful poet threw himself upon a grassy bank,
shadowed by trees, and as the sounds of music crept upon his ears,
"Soft stillness, and the night,
Became the touches of sweet harmony."
And what indeed were the thoughts and imaginings the scene and hour gave
rise to?--Thoughts softened by the sweet breath of a summer's night,
loaded with perfume, and bearing harmony from the distance. At such
moment the mind reverts to days long past, or even revels in the fabled
ages of the early world. In such a night as this,
"When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise; in such a night,
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls
And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents
Where Cressid lay."
And,
"In such a night,
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,
Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love
To come again to Carthage."
It was whilst Shakespeare remained thus sequestered and alone, and in
the indulgence of the thoughts produced by such a situation, that the
company had sought the gardens; and the walks, and alleys, the green
slopes, and mossed banks, became suddenly peopled with bright forms, and
which in a moment gave another and gayer aspect, and a totally different
turn to the entire scene. The stillness, and the sweet touches of
distant music, and which had so stolen upon his heart, was now changed
to the sounds of laughter and loud conversation. In the shaded walks
were now to be seen some tall form, clad in brave attire; his jewelled
hat and gay plume bent down as he conversed with the lady at his side,
and, in the open space before him, the different groups lent a lustre to
the gardens which only gay costume and forms of beauty can give. As he
remarked the scene before him, the joyous and sportive throng thus
revelling in happiness,--the very heavens "thick inlaid with patinos of
bright gold," he presently observed a dark and ominous cloud slowly and
stealthily mounting, as it were, from the south. It seemed to emerge
from the distant woods like a pall, and--as if emblematic of the
short-lived days of mortals--gradually stole over one side of the
heavens.
Yes, that flaunting throng was like the pleasures of the world. "Those
clouds were like its coming cares." Whilst he watched their slow
development, a light footstep approached, and Charlotte Clopton stood
before him.
Was it his fancy, or was it that the silver brightness falling on the
spot on which she stood, gave an ethereal appearance to the beautiful
girl, a ghost-like and shadowy look, which, for the moment, struck him
with a sort of awe? He arose from his recumbent posture, and, as he did
so, he observed she was unusually pale. Nay, as he gazed upon that sweet
face and form, he could not help seeing that it was with difficulty she
kept herself from falling.
"I fear me, lady," he said, (struck with sudden alarm,) "you are not
well?"
"A feeling of illness has indeed come over me," said Charlotte, "and
which I cannot entirely shake off. I thought the air of the gardens
would have taken it away, but it has not done so."
"Suffer me to lead you in," said Shakespeare, taking her hand, "perhaps
some cordial will restore you?"
"Not so," said Charlotte; "I have sought this spot as I knew it was a
favourite one with you. I felt you would be here, and that I must see
you. I know not wherefore, but a presentiment of evil is upon me. I feel
as if I spoke to thee this night for the last time."
There was a wildness in the manner of Charlotte Clopton, as she said
this, which increased the anxiety of her admirer, and, as he saw that
she was really suffering from some sudden feeling of illness, he again
entreated her to seek the house. She, however, again refused. "I have
sought this opportunity to speak to you," she said, "for I felt I must
do so; nay, I feel as if I should die unless I unburthened myself to
one I so highly esteem, one to whom I owe so much, one so noble and so
good; nay, were it to any but to thee, (generous and sweet in
disposition as thou art, William Shakespeare,) I should shame to say so
much. But well I know that none can know thee and refrain from loving;
can trust thee and repent."
To say that the youthful poet could hear this from a being so beautiful,
and not forget all the resolutions he had previously made to subdue and
conceal his passion, would be to describe one of those over-perfect
mortals existing only in the imagination of the prudish.
William Shakespeare was no such perfection of a hero; he had sought to
quench his love's hot fire,
"Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason."
The intense feelings of youth, however, and which in after-life led him
so forcibly to pourtray the passion he felt, now completely overcame all
his prudential resolves.
The being he had thought so much above him, and in secret loved, had
confessed her feelings. He was instantly lost to every thing but his
love for her. Its hopelessness, its seeming treachery towards his new
and generous friend, all were forgotten as he gazed upon Charlotte and
returned her vows. And yet, what was this love, so pure, so unselfish,
so unlikely ever to meet with reward? It rather lacked, even at its
commencement, the rapturous intoxication of hope, and seemed, even at
the moment of its mutual confidence, to partake of the bitterness of
certain disappointment.
Whilst the various groups had been enjoying themselves in the grounds,
the heavens had become gradually overcast, till one entire portion was
mantled with the darksome veil now rapidly extending; distant rumbling
peals, too, like the sound of heavy ordnance from afar, and large heavy
drops of rain, gave notice of the coming storm. This, together with the
renewed sound of music, warned the revellers around again to seek the
shelter of the Hall, and, as Charlotte Clopton heard her name called,
the lovers too felt that they must part. Yet still they lingered, and
had more to say.
The voice of Martin, however, calling upon Charlotte, who had now been
suddenly missed from amongst the guests, and sought for in the house,
recalled them to the necessity of separating. Their parting seemed a sad
one, and although the feeling of illness Charlotte had previously felt
had now partially left her, she still felt a sensation of langour and a
weight upon her spirits she could not account for.
Her lover observed this, and that her cheek, ordinarily so full of
bloom, was deadly pale, giving her dark brown tresses a still darker
shade, and he parted from her with an ill divining soul.
In his present frame of mind Shakespeare felt no longer any desire to
witness the gaieties within doors, and yet he found it impossible to
tear himself away from the gardens. He loved to breathe the neighbouring
air, and as he listened to the music, he tried to fancy her he loved
still adding to the grace and beauty of the assemblage.
Whilst he thus remained lost in his own thoughts, the threatened storm
suddenly burst forth. The thunder crashed over head, and the lightning
darted along the walks and alleys of the gardens, and then came the
rain, rushing upon the earth like a cataract, suddenly bursting bounds.
These sounds were mingled with the tread of horses' hoofs as they
clattered into the stable-yard, and then came a short and rapid word of
command. A few minutes more and the music ceased; rapid and hurried
footsteps were heard, as of guests suddenly departing, coupled with
lamentations and sounds of alarm. The mirth of the assemblage seemed
suddenly to have been marred, and their good cheer spoiled, and such
indeed was the case.
In the very midst of the revel, and whilst the festive cup was drained
around to the health of Sir Hugh and his fair child, that child had
again been seized with illness and fainted.
Attributing it to the heat and excitement she had undergone, Sir Hugh
bore her to her couch, and as she soon recovered from her swoon he again
sought his guests.
When he did so, he observed that during his absence the party had been
increased by the addition of some half a dozen cavaliers completely
armed, and as he entered the room the chief of the party stepped up to
him, and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Sir Hugh Clopton, of Clopton," he said, in a loud voice, "I arrest thee
of high treason, in the name of our most sovereign lady the Queen."