THE VILLAGE FETE.--ANNE HATHAWAY.
It is extraordinary how speedily the human mind recovers its elasticity
after being bent down to the earth, as it were, with the weight of care.
Let the reader glide over some four or five months from the date of the
transactions we have first narrated, and again look upon
Stratford-upon-Avon. No trace remains of the deadly scourge which had so
recently raged in the town; nay, even but small remembrance is to be
observed in the visages or trappings and suite of the surviving
citizens (now again mixing in the business of life and the pleasures of
the world) of those relations and friends _put to bed with a shovel_.
The fact was, that the plague was a constant visitor at this period, and
fear of infection the bugbear of the time.[4] The visitation, however,
being over, the inhabitants came forth again with renewed zest. They
fluttered about like "summer flies i' the shambles," and sunned
themselves in the anticipation of brighter days to come. It seemed quite
a delight to walk the streets, where all looked so happy and contented.
And yet how small indeed is the portion of life really and truly enjoyed
by the poor compounded clay, man! Youth refuses to be happy in the
present moment, and looks forward to future joys, never perhaps to be
realized. Old age, again, takes a backward glance, and sighs over what
has passed; whilst manhood (which appears to be occupied with the
present moment) in reality is oft-times forming vague determinations for
happiness at some future period when time shall serve.
[Footnote 4: See Correspondence of Sir Christopher Hatton.]
Master Dismal had experienced a perfect state of contemplative
contentment during the recent visitation; he might now sit himself down
and retire for a space, he thought; his researches had been most
incessant, and his attendance upon his neighbours most praiseworthy; he
could almost have written a treatise upon all he had beheld and studied;
he had seen out no less than three sapient doctors during the progress
of the plague, and could indeed, from his gathered experience, have
himself practised the healing art as well as the remaining one. Now,
however, that his vocation was over, for the present at least, and the
inhabitants full of enjoyment, he determined to enjoy himself amongst
them. It was exactly the twelfth day after Christmas-day that the thread
of our story is resumed. A sort of village festival was held at the
hamlet of Shottery, about a mile distant from Stratford-upon-Avon, and
as several of Master Dismal's neighbours were hieing thither with light
hearts and joyous spirits, thither he bent his steps also. "Who knows
what sports may be toward?" he said, as he called for Lawyer Grasp and
Master Doubletongue, on his way. "Peradventure I may be of some service;
for albeit I do not wish to anticipate accidents or offences, the last
wake I was present at, which was at the shearing-feast at Kenilworth
Green, there were more heads broken by the lads of Coventry and Warwick
than I can tell you. Nay, Dick, the smith, got such a fall at the
wrestling, that he never joyed after. Yes, he, died in three weeks. Aye,
and Ralph Roughhead had his spine wrenched by the back trick."
In Elizabeth's day, when the bold peasantry of England did recreate
themselves, their sports and pastimes were most joyous. Except in such a
case as we have just described, and in which the hand of sickness bore
them hard, their hearths were for the most part free from the withering
cares of our own improving times. Light-hearted and jovial, they kept up
the old world sports and pastimes which had been handed down from their
forefathers. Those quaint games and rural diversions so frequently
carried on in the green fields and bosky woods. Those cozy fire-side
diversions which extended alike from the cottage ingle neuk to the
manorial hall and the castle court.
Many of the popular customs then in use had their origin in remote
antiquity. The well-known custom of making presents upon New-Year's-day
in England is as old, for instance, as the period in which the Romans
sojourned in Britain, and by whom it was introduced amongst us. Amongst
the Saxons the first of the new year was observed with great ceremony
and hilarity, and in the reign of Alfred a law was made that the twelve
days following Christmas-day should be kept as festivals. This is the
original of our twelfth-day feast, and which, in Elizabeth's reign, and
long afterwards, was kept with something more of jovial circumstance
than is now customary. For what says Herrick--
"For sports, for pagentrie and plays,
Thou hast thy eves and holy days.
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast:
Thy May-pole, too, with garlands vast.
Thy morrice dance, thy Whitsun ale,
Thy shearing feasts which never fail;
Thy harvest home, thy wassaile bowle
That's tost up after fox-i'th-hole;
Thy mummeries, thy twelfe-tide kings,
And queens; thy Christmas revellings."
When Master Dismal reached Shottery, he found a goodly assemblage
collected together enjoying themselves in various ways upon the green. A
whole sheep, which had been given to the inhabitants of the hamlet by
Sir Thomas Lucy, who possessed property there, was roasting before a
huge fire. A company of morris-dancers, dressed in a sort of eastern or
Moorish costume, and covered with bells, were capering away, toeing and
heeling, and keeping time, their truncheons also bedecked with hawks'
bells, and making a tremendous jingling.
Then the May-pole, decked with evergreens and berries, and surmounted
with misletoe, had its joyous party dancing, and running, and threading,
and laughing, till the green rang again. The lads were all in holiday
trim, their short becoming jackets belted tightly round the waist, their
trunks and well-fitting hose forming part of their picturesque costume.
The lasses were also dressed for the most part in one style--the neat
made boddice and the short stuff petticoat, so becoming to the female
figure, and in which they looked handsomer even than if bedizened with
lace and silk, and tricked out with jewellery. The glow of exercise was
in their cheeks, and the forms of many there, as they sported in all the
unchecked freedom of innocent enjoyment, would have been worthy studies
for the artist's pencil.
The children of the village, who are seldom behindhand when diversions
are in full force, had also their part in the performance. Tricked out
in all sorts of scraps of frippery, and costumed for the nonce, they
revived, in their own way, the Christmas-day pastimes, and bringing out
the hobby-horse, the green dragon, and all the paraphernalia which had
done service on the former occasion, they renewed (in small) the sports
they had then and there beheld. The dragon flapped his wings, the knight
engaged him, the merryman and the old pantaloon took equal numbers of
adherents, and "fought on part and part." The snow-balls flew fast and
furious, and loud and dire were the shouts and hallooing of the
combatants. Then came the feast in the open air, for in those days men
and women shrank not from the winter blast during their holiday sports,
and after that the cup went round, the dance was renewed, and the
twelfth-tide kings and queens were introduced in all their grandeur.
The village of Shottery was a lovely specimen of a rural hamlet in the
days of Elizabeth. It consisted then but of some half-a-dozen houses or
hamlets, which, sequestered amongst the deep woodlands, and each with
its little orchard in rear, and its pretty flower-garden, formed a
delicious picture.
Except, indeed, that the homesteads were of a more recent build, (having
superseded the ruder sort of huts, one or two of which, however, yet
remained,) Shottery seemed as sequestered and out of the way of the busy
world as when, many hundred years back, Offa, King of the Mercians,
granted its meadow to the church of Worcester.
Besides the actors in the different games, there were also many
spectators, who stood about and occasionally mingled amongst the lads
and lasses of the village; and amongst these visitors were several
foresters or keepers belonging to the domains of the gentry around.
These men, as was generally the case when they met together at the
different wakes, fairs, and country diversions, got up a shooting-match
at the edge of the green. Warwickshire was always famous for its
bow-men, and the caliver had not so entirely superseded the cloth-yard
shaft but that it was yet a dear diversion amongst the peasantry. The
cross-bow, it is true, was mostly in use, but the longbow was still much
practised. The remembrance of its destructive powers, and the battles it
had won in the "vasty fields of France," was yet ripe in the mouths and
memories of the old host, when he told his winter tale; nay, even yet we
shall find in this delightful province some remnant of the longbow in
almost every hamlet: there are indeed more archery meetings in
Warwickshire alone than in all the other counties of England put
together.
Amongst the many specimens of rural beauty enjoying themselves in the
dance, there was one female who especially attracted the gaze of all
assembled.
Pouncet Grasp (who had wandered over with Master Dismal and others to
enjoy the scene, and, at the same time, see a client he had in the
hamlet) seemed especially struck with her. Nay, even Master Dismal
pronounced her of exceeding good proportions, and most comely features.
He had never seen a fairer form, he affirmed, chiselled upon a tomb.
"What a lovely corpse she would make!" he said, with professional
enthusiasm; "an it please Heaven to take her early, and before age
withered up her rounded limbs, and whitened her glossy black hair."
"Out upon it," said Master Doubletongue; "thy voice is like a screech
owl's! Yonder lass will live to make wild work with the hearts of some
of the village swains before she dies, for all her cherubim looks. I
shall make shrewd inquiry about her. I'll wager a flagon there's some
scandal to be heard. I never knew a well-favoured maiden yet, but her
neighbours said something of her;" and here Master Doubletongue
whispered in Grasp's ear, at which the lawyer laughed and winked his
eye, as much as to say, "Ah, Master Doubletongue, you're a wag, but
you're not far out either."
"An I might get yonder sweet-faced lass for a partner," said Grasp, who
was a trifle roguish when out of his office; "methinks I could like to
shake a toe amongst the circle."
"Nay," said Doubletongue, "I'm clearly with you there, neighbour; what a
trim ancle she hath! By the mass, the keen wind which blows me into an
ague here, shews her figure off to advantage. Accost her, Grasp, accost
her! Methinks I should like to hear the voice which issues from so
pretty a mouth."
"Go to," said Grasp, "I am somewhat diffident at speaking to a young
lass where so many of her companions are around her. Do thou accost her,
Master Doubletongue, and I'll be near to back you. See, the dance is
finished, and she comes this way."
"You trip it featly, fair Mistress," said Doubletongue, as the damsel,
whose appearance had so struck them, approached with two other maidens.
"Will you join hands with me? Methinks I should like to join issue in
the dance, and tread a measure with so fair a partner."
"Thanks, gentle sir," said the maid, laughing; "but I do not use to
dance with any save those I know."
"Right," said a tall athletic-looking forester. "What do lawyers want
dancing with village girls--Eh? Go to, Master Grasp, mate with your own
degree. Fair mistress Anne," said he to the maiden, "you must be mine
for the next dance."
The maiden shrank back with a look of dislike at the tall forester,
which Grasp observing, interpreted it as a preference for himself as a
partner.
"Thou art but a rude companion," said he; "and I would fain have the
maiden's answer without thy counsel; she'll have none of thy partnership
any how, I trow."
"No," said Doubletongue; "she wisheth not to have the scandal of such a
partner. Go, fellow--go."
"Pshaw!" said the forester, "what a brace of old crones thou art--go,
get thee down to the hostel yonder, and warm thee with a cup of wine, or
an extra flannel shirt! Dance, quotha, and with such a lass as Anne
Hathaway--Ha! Ha! Why, there's not a caper left in the pair of ye. Go,
ye gray beards, go, or by my faith I'll make ye both dance to some other
tune."
"Come, neighbour," said Doubletongue, who liked not the athletic make
and savage look of the forester, "let us budge and exchange no more
words with this scurvy companion. For, look ye there, the girl and he
understand each other, depend on't. They are well matched. I know the
fellow. He's a keeper of Sir Thomas Lucy's, and one of the greatest
ruffians in the country."
But the village maiden evidently did not relish the companionship of the
tall forester. She turned and would have tripped off with her two female
companions without more controversy. The forester, however, who seemed
somewhat flushed with good liquor, seized her by the hand, and insisted
upon her being his partner.
"If I must dance with thee, Diccon, why I must," she said, as she was
led by the rude keeper to another party; "but it is ungentle of thee to
force me to do so against my free inclination."
"Thou art ever thus coy with me, Anne," said the forester, "and ever
avoidest my company. Why dost use me thus, when I have sworn an hundred
times I would die to serve thee?"
"I like thee not, and would have no further words with thee," said the
maiden. "Thy presence poisons my delight. I have told thee so I know not
how oft. I pr'ythee prove the love thou dost profess, by leaving me."
"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 associations. 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 lass 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
circumstances 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 snatched 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 lass, lest I pluck
her from thee, or rather thee from her."
"The maiden seeks her home for a space," 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 anticipated 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 Dick 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, "assault 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 Dick 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 assailed 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."
"If your honour looks but amongst the knot of men yonder," said the
forester, "you cannot fail but see him."
"What, is it that fellow there with the broad shoulders and long back?
By my fay, a strong and able caitiff."
"Not so," said the keeper, "'tis the youth standing next him, in the
gray doublet."
"Fetch him hither," said Sir Thomas; "I would speak with him."
As young Shakespeare approached Sir Thomas, the knight regarded him with
a scrutinizing and searching eye.
"A goodly stripling," he said, turning to Sir Jacob Astley, of Hill
Morton, one of the gentlemen with him, "a goodly stripling, and a bold
looking withal."
"It hath been notified to me, sirrah," said Sir Thomas, addressing
Shakespeare with infinite stateliness and hauteur, "that you are much
given to evil ways, inasmuch as you are wont to make frequent trespass
upon my parks and woods hereabouts; and that, too, to the detriment of
my property and the disturbance of my deer."
"I am sorry such rumours have reached you," said Shakespeare coolly,
"since there is, I fear me, some sort of foundation for them. I _have_
trespassed in your woods. Albeit, I have never intentionally molested
the deer."
"I am glad you have the grace to confess so much," said Sir Thomas; "but
sith you have not disturbed my deer, you have, at least, beaten my
foresters during your trespass, and again to-day have you repeated the
offence."
"Your foresters rated me in ungentle terms," said Shakespeare; "railed
at, and bestowed vile epithets upon me. Nay, even laid hands on me."
"They are hired by me so to do," said Sir Thomas. "Their roughness is
their virtue; and _by_ such roughness are they told to deter all
trespassers and poachers from my parks and warrens."
"I am no poacher, to be so railed at and roughly treated," said
Shakespeare coolly.
"Well, henceforth come no more into my woods," said Sir Thomas,
preparing to ride off, "lest I give directions to have thee used in a
more rough fashion than heretofore."
"I cannot promise that," said Shakespeare, "since I am much given to
wandering; and, truth to say, I know not exactly which are, and which
are not, your grounds. I would not willingly anger Sir Thomas Lucy, of
Charlecote, _but_ an he keeps men for the preservation of the game, and
the amusement of himself, methinks such men have small right to domineer
and tyrannize over those of poorer sort, who seek but the free air and
the wild woodlands."
"Thou art over bold and insolent for thy years," said Sir Thomas; "I
will have thee whipped and imprisoned the next time my men take thee. So
come not in Charlecote woods an ye be wise." And Sir Thomas, who found
his choler getting high, put spurs to his palfrey, and, after ordering
his keeper to quit the Green, rode off with his company.
It would be difficult to describe the expression of mingled acorn,
contempt, and ridicule which was expressed upon the countenance of
Shakespeare, as he regarded the departing figure of the knight of
Charlecote.
He stood for some moments leaning upon his staff, looking upon the party
as they rode off the Green and disappeared in the woods. He then turned
his glance contemptuously upon the keeper, and laughing to himself as he
repeated the words, "whipped and imprisoned," turned and was about to
leave the spot.
"We shall meet again," said the keeper, in a deriding tone. "I know we
shall."
"Not if I can avoid it," said Shakespeare.
"An we do," said the keeper, "you hear what is in store for you."
"He you serve can hardly tell what is in store for himself, much more
for another," said Shakespeare, "an he could have done so, he had
prophesied thy likely reward both here and elsewhere."
"What would that be?" inquired the keeper, coming close to the youth.
"Present beating, if again insolent," said Shakespeare, "and the gallows
in reversion."
The keeper drew back; he remembered his comrade's discomfiture, and the
skill the youth had displayed.
"Well, fare thee well," he said, "we shall cry quits anon. An Sir Thomas
keep word with thee we shall lay thee by the heels yet."
"And, an he keep word with thee, he will have one knave the less in his
service. Adieu, I waste time and speech upon thee." So saying,
Shakespeare turned his back upon the forester, who, joining his
companions, after exchanging a few angry words with their late
opponents, they left the Green, and the sports were resumed.