THE TWELFTH-TIDE REVELRY.
The rudeness of the keepers and their overbearing style towards the
villagers, was by no means an uncommon occurrence. Backed up by their
employers to display as much roughness towards all trespassers as they
chose, the foresters were usually a coarse and brutal set. They were
mostly chosen too, at this period, for courage, strength, and skill with
their weapons; consequently when they came into collision with the
peasantry, the latter frequently had the worst of it, and the conflict
seldom ended without serious consequences.
On the present occasion, several of the village lads assembled vowed war
to the knife against the men they had fought with. They had so often
experienced their _outrecuidance_ and overbearing rudeness, that they
swore to annoy them in every possible way they could.
"Sir Thomas Lucy," said Ralph Coulter, "doth ever take part against us,
let his men use us vilely as they may; nay, we shall soon have no leave
to step either to the right or to the left from the beaten road. For
look ye, an we steal but into the meadows to whisper a word into a fair
lass's ear, we are warned off, and ordered to keep the path; an we take
a dog to hunt the ducks in the stream, we are threatened with
imprisonment for poaching."
"As well do the thing at once as be blamed for it," said another
peasant; "who'll go down with me to-night, and shoot a buck in
Fulbrook?"
"Have with you for one, say I," said Ralph Coulter, "an we miss the buck
and hit the keeper, so much the better shot."
"Nay, this is but folly," said a third, "and may bring all into trouble,
so to speak before strangers; you do but jest, I trow! Look ye, we are
overheard too."
"An ye mean this lad who hath so well cudgelled Black Dick," said
Coulter, "I dare be sworn he is not a sneak to turn informer upon us."
"Wilt take a part and bring in a buck some night? Me thinks it would be
rare sport," he continued, addressing Shakespeare.
"Marry will I," said Shakespeare, whose daring disposition was instantly
aroused at the idea of the exploit. "Any night you like I should dearly
love to do some despite towards those overweening knaves."
"Well," said Coulter, "we shall talk further of it anon; meantime see
the dancing is over, and the indoors diversions are beginning. I am for
old Hathaway's orchard and the cider revel."
"And I am for goodman Thorne's," said another; and so the party
separated.
The shadows of a January's evening were now beginning to descend over
the surrounding scene, and the several parties to retire to their
different homesteads, there to continue their twelfth-tide diversions,
and to partake of such fare as the good wives had prepared for the
swains accompanying their daughters home.
Young Shakespeare, who had made acquaintance with Ralph Coulter,
accordingly accompanied him to the cottage of Master Hathaway, where he
again met with the handsome Anne, and renewed his acquaintance with her.
The maiden indeed seemed nothing loth to receive his attention, for his
handsome figure and gallant conduct had already made some impression
upon her.
According to an ancient custom in this and other counties of "Merrie
England," Master Hathaway assembled his guests in the principal
apartment of his domicile, a good-sized and comfortable-looking room,
and which (as was usual in those days) served the jolly yeoman for
"parlour, and kitchen, and hall." There was the huge gaping chimney,
with its comfortable bench on either hand, together with those stout
timbered rafters and oaken beams at the roof, from which hung such store
of bacon and other good things appertaining. There was the
diamond-paned-window and its seat beneath, with the stout timbered
doors, the high-backed chairs, and the one massive and cumbrous oaken
table, and which seemed from its thick supporters to be fixed into the
floor, or growing out of it; and there sat the grandsire in his old
accustomed seat under the chimney, "sans eyes, sans taste, sans teeth,
sans everything," yet looking with some sort of recognition upon the
sports he had witnessed, man and boy, for near a century in that very
room. In short, it was a perfect picture of rural comfort and old world
contentment that kitchen and its appurtenances, filled as it was with
those happy, smiling, and rosy maidens, and their stout-limbed ruddy
village swains.
As soon as Master Hathaway had assembled his guests and family, he
filled a huge pitcher with cider, and the whole party, young and old,
male and female, filed out into the orchard in rear of the cottage. Here
they immediately took hands around one of the best apple trees, and
dancing round it, the whole company hailed the veteran in the following
doggrel, in the gladsome feeling of their light hearts, flinging and
capering, shouting and hallooing, like so many bacchanals.
"All hail to thee, thou old apple-tree,
Whence thou may'st bud, and whence thou may'st blow,
And whence thou may'st bear apples enow.
Bonnets-full! caps-full!
Bushel-bushel-sacks-full,
And our pockets-full eke also;
Here's for thee, thou old apple-tree, huzza! huzza!"
Whilst this was being sung, the females of the party, seizing the
opportunity of the jug passing round, made their escape within doors;
and then the joint intended for supper being clapped upon the spit, the
doors were all immediately made fast. Meantime Master Hathaway, having
finished his "all hail" to the patriarch of the apple family, bestowed a
libation on its mossed stem from the remains of the cider, and then, at
the head of his party, made the tour of his orchard, singing the same
exquisite piece of doggrel over again.
This done, as the sharp and biting blast of a January night began to be
apparent, and the snow to fall, the whole of the men assembled filed off
to the house. Here (according to the custom of the time and the sport
toward) the doors were found to have been secured by the female portions
of the revellers; and they were put through the ceremony of a formal
demand for admittance, and as formal a denial.
Exposed to the pitiless pelting of the snow-storm, whilst the damsels
jeered them at advantage from the casement, they were told that no lock
could be turned, no bolt withdrawn, until one amongst their party
(himself a guest and a bachelor) could guess the name of the joint
roasting upon the spit.
"And what guerdon," inquired Shakespeare, "to him who guesseth the
same?"
"The best portion of the joint," said Dame Hathaway, "the first draught
from the cider with the toast and hissing crab in it, and a kiss from
the comeliest lass in the company."
"The latter reward, then, at least, I claim," said Shakespeare; "for an
you have not spitted the chine to-night, I would I might never see a
porker again."
The scream of laughter with which this was received, (the withdrawal of
the bolts, and the rush of the lasses to hide themselves from the
penalty incurred), proclaimed that the guesser had made a lucky hit; and
Shakespeare, in right of his guess, entered first to claim and obtain
the reward.
Our readers need scarcely be informed that the handsome daughter of the
host was the maiden sought for and selected; and that Anne Hathaway
received on this night the first kiss from William Shakespeare.
In the games which were to follow this ceremony, the more mirth
displayed was superstitiously imagined to give greater promise of a full
apple season that year, and accordingly, fast and furious grew the fun.
If we were to say that young Shakespeare entered into these revels with
feelings of unmingled enjoyment, we should indeed belie him.
As he looked upon the joyous faces around him, he felt delighted at the
scene; and as his eye occasionally met that of the handsome Anne, he
certainly at each glance felt more and more struck with her beauty; yet,
still the remembrance of Charlotte Clopton, and the dear friends he had
lost, over and anon "stopped the career of laughter with a sigh," and
he, at such moments, felt almost unfitted for the scene.
There was, however, a charm to one of his disposition in these old wild
rites and superstitions; and, as after midnight the revellers sat round
the hearth, and each one was called upon for the tale of grammarie, the
ghost story, or the fairy tale, he at length gave himself up to the
enjoyment of the hour and season.
The peasantry of our times have scarce an idea of the enjoyment
consequent upon the old creeds and superstitions of their forefathers.
Their dispositions are soured, their lives squalid, their style brutal,
and in comparison to the good old English peasant, the jovial hearty
yeoman of Elizabeth's day, they are a miserable race. The innocence of
the old age is fled, and 'tis now all driving harshness, and hard
selfish utilitarianism.
Our fairy creed, amongst other things of more moment, and which was wont
to be so cherished amongst the superstitions of the peasantry, is gone
from their memories.
Not a sprite is left to skim the cream from the bowl,--not a silver
piece is now ever lent to the _favoured_ maiden, _without the rate of
interest_, and found by her at early dawn.
Puck and Robin Goodfellow, and all their elfin throng, _have fled ever_
from the scene. At the period of our story, however, these imaginary
beings held a prominent place in the minds of our rural populations.
Nay, so firmly was the existence of these _elfins of power_ believed in,
and so much influence were they supposed to have over mortals _for good
or ill_, that many an old crone spoke with bated breath when she named
the merry or mischievous pranks of Robin Goodfellow. Many a bold youth
glanced with eye of fear at the acknowledged haunt of the fay in the
forest glade, and many a maiden held the household sprite in religious
awe, as she swept her kitchen at early dawn.
That such feelings and superstitions were idle and ridiculous (amongst
the bold peasantry of England in a former age) is true. Still, they gave
a charm to each shadowy grove and unfrequented wood, and caused an
interest in the different wild scenes of beauty where the elfin crew,
"those merry wanderers of the night," were wont to hold their moonlight
revels, and dance their ringlets to the whistling wind, which to our own
times is unknown.
The more noisy sports of the night had finished. The party, nothing
loth, for even pleasure is fatiguing, were now seated round the blazing
hearth. To noise and loud laughter succeeded the cough of the crone--the
saw of the old man's tale--the tale "of woeful ages long ago betide,"
and the chirp of the cricket; whilst the ruddy glow of the fire was
reflected upon the faces and forms of tho listeners sitting around. The
maidens, too, crept more closely to their admiring swains, as they
glanced fearfully behind during the progress of the tale; more than one
kiss was taken on the sly, by way of assurance against the spectre. The
last pipkin of good liquor simmered upon the hearth, and, in short, it
was now the very "sweet o' the night."
To Shakespeare this was a delightful moment. His mind seized upon the
secret feelings of the assemblage. He saw them in their ignorance and
superstition: and though conscious of his own superiority over the rude
throng, "sitting 'mongst men like a descended god,"--nay, in after days,
remembering these meetings and the feelings they had engendered, he
founded an elfin world of his own on the traditions of the peasantry,
and clothed them in the ever-living flowers of his own exuberant fancy.
Yes, he who was to astonish the universal world, sat in that cottage
like one lost in a dream--a dream which these simple superstitions had
conjured up. The snow-storm still rattled on the casement, the fire grew
dim on the hearth, the room darkened down, the wind whistled without,
and sounded drear amongst the mossed trees in old Hathaway's orchard, as
he listened, and, as his arm stole round the waist of the sweet Anne, he
forgot his recent troubles, and already felt himself half in love,
whilst the tale and the song still went on.
That gentle and unassuming mortal was the last person to presume upon
his own feelings and knowledge; he felt pleased and delighted with the
company he was thrown amongst, and extracted amusement and instruction
from the veriest clod-pate there. Perhaps the enjoyment of the circle
was the more perfect, too, from the growing storm, which as it rattled
sharply against the casements, added to the comfort within, by the
apparent discomfort without.
Remembrance lingers o'er such scenes, and the lapse of time gives them
an interest which at the period they scarcely seemed to possess. Yes,
time hallows in after days the scene and hour, and softens the
remembrance of it even as age softens the touches of a picture.
"Ugh-ugh," coughed the old grandsire, when called upon for his story.
"There have been many tales told of Robin Goodfellow in my young days,
an I could but remember them. Nay, I can recollect myself sad pranks he
used to play. Both him and Hobgoblin, as we used to call t'other sprite.
In those days the witches were more plentiful than now, though their
evil deeds are rife enow at all times--God 'ild us; but even the witches
themselves were no more terrible than was Robin and his rout. Mass, I
wish I could remember one half of the merry jests, mad pranks, and
mischiefs he used to do."
"Nay, grandsire," said Anne Hathaway, "but this Robin doth no harm now,
except it to be to knaves and queans, as he is Oberon's own son, so his
royal father hath enjoined him not to harm the good and thrifty."
"Of a verity," said the elder Hathaway, "such is the case in some sort.
Nevertheless, Anne, in my time, sad pranks have been played in the night
season by Robin."
"Aye, and as many good turns done too by him in mine," said old dame
Hathaway. "What, hath not the elf oft-times ground the malt, swept clean
the house, and washed all the children's faces in the night?"
"Aye," said the other, "and pinched the maids black and blue for
laziness; and even carried them out fast asleep into the green meadows
in the night, and led poor wayfarers out of the way to perish in some
deep wash."[5]
[Footnote 5: All these were popular beliefs.]
"Well, well," said Master Hathaway, "cleanliness and thrift, and a good
hunk of bread in one's pouch, will do much; not only to keep off the
elf, but to keep one from hungering in the quagmire, for what saith the
rhyme."[6]
[Footnote 6: Clobie's "Divine Glimpses." I adopt these lines because
they allude to the curious old opinion, that bread carried about the
person was a charm against tricks of Robin Goodfellow, though they bear
date 1659.]
"Thy fairy elves who thee mislead with stories
Into the mire, then at thy folly smile,
Yea, clap their hands for joy. Were I used so;
I should shake hands with them, and turn their foe.
Old country folks, who pixie leading fear,
Bear bread about them to prevent that harm!"
"Come, tell us, grandsire," said Anne, "how you met the fairies coming
one night from Monkspath."
"Gad-a-mercy, lass, I had almost forgotten all about it," said the old
host, who indeed had most likely dreamt the adventure one night in his
cups, and then related it till he himself believed it was a fact. "Why,
you see, when I was a yonker, there were terrible deeds done in England.
We didn't live then so peaceable-like, as we do now, under our blessed
Queen Elizabeth. A man's life in those days warn't thought o' so much
value as in ourn; by the same token, stabbing, smashing, hanging, and
heading, and all sorts of wild work, were the order of the day,--more
the pity. We hadn't then either such goodly dwellings, at least so many
on 'em. Men were men then, and hadn't such luxuries as now. Ugh-ugh,
Gad-a-mercy! I have seen the time when we used to sleep o' nights in the
open fields as comfortably as under a roof. Nay, we hadn't such beds
either then. A shake-down of the fern, or a clean bed of straw, with a
log of wood for the head, was enow for most folks. I struck a good
strike for Harry at Bosworth Field what time old Shakespeare----"
"Well, well," interrupted John Hathaway, "Bosworth bye and bye. The
fairy story now, father."
"Nay, I war only going to say that yonder lad's grandfather (old
Shakespeare of Stratford) could have borne me out, had he been alive,
since he war at the battle of Bosworth too. Both he and I were together,
jammed in amongst the spearmen, when King Richard pressed up on his
white horse, and nearly struck young Richmond down. Mass, he were a
fierce devil that day, and raged like a fiend. Richmond, I remember,
bore back, as well as he might, an Richard had not been beaten off by
the good knights around, the hot king had fairly brained him. Two I saw
him fell with my own eyes ere he was forced away. Ah, he were a goodly
sight to look on that day; and if deeds of daring and good soldiership
could ha gotten the day, Richard had had it. He wore his crown upon his
helmet, I remember, and (albins men liked him not) by my fay, he looked
a king. No man that lived and beheld him but saw that."
"But the fairies, grandsire, the fairies?" said Anne.
"Well, well; bide a bit. Where war I? Ah, I see. I had a mad horse in
Shottery--what time I came back from Leicestershire--and I would fain
have sold him; so I e'en rode him along with some other youngsters to
Kenilworth Green, where there war a wake holden underneath the abbey
walls. Folks spoke darkly of old Kenilworth then. Now I'm told there be
rare new buildings reared up there."
"There are," said Ralph Coulter. "A fine new castle hath been built by
the Earl, glorious to look on, and called Leicester's Buildings, and
ornamented, that it would do you good to look on 'em."
"Ah," said the elder Hathaway, "times are changed hugely. At the time I
speak of old Clinton's Tower was ornamented and hung with the bodies of
caitiffs, traitors, and outlaws; for the whole country round was full of
disturbance, famine, and war. Howbeit, as I was saying, I went to
Kenilworth to sell my sorrel nag; but I couldn't do so. So after I had
taken a draught at the Leicester Arms there, I rode away to a relation I
had at Monkspath. Travelling was very unsafe then, as you may
believe--worse than now-a-days--and I hastened on to get through the
woods before nightfall; and when I had got within about a mile of
Monkspath, I saw a man, just as it began to grow twilight, coming
towards me. He was dressed in a bright green doublet, and either my
eyes deceived me, or the good liquor of the hostel made me see double,
but he had a sort of _familiar_ flitting at his back. He was very small
in make and height, and wore a bright golden bugle at his waist. My
horse stopped of himself as the little man came up, and seemed all of a
tremble, and wouldn't pass him nohow; so I dismounted, and tried to lead
him past. But it wur all one; the horse wur fixed as firm as one of the
old oaks beside us. 'Will you sell that brute?' said the little hunter.
''Tis what I wish,' I answered. 'It is very ugly: is it a cow or a
horse?' said the little man. 'He was a horse a minute ago,' I answered;
'but now he seems turned to stone: I can't make him go, no wise.' 'My
people have got him fast,' said the little man; 'he can't go. What do
you ask for him?' inquired the little wretch. 'Fifteen pieces,' I said.
'There's thirty,' said the little man. 'Now stand aside whilst I mount.'
So saying, the little gentleman gave me the thirty pieces, and got upon
the horse. No sooner had he done so than the beast went mad outright, I
thought. He flew about, capered, and kicked out his heels, as if a flame
of fire had lighted on his crupper. I ran to get out of the way, for
fear of being struck, and when I turned, lo, horse and man were clean
gone--sink into the earth as it were, and vanished, leaving me in the
greatest of terror and confusion; whilst a wild and beautiful strain--a
sort of hollow winding note of a bugle--seemed to pass through the air."
"Strange," said several of the listeners. "Was it not?"
"As soon as I had a little recovered myself," continued the quaint old
man, "I hastened on to Monkspath, and sought my relation. He took me to
an old monk belonging to the abbey beside the castle, to whom I told the
story, and asked his advice about the money, and whether I might use it.
The monk gave me leave to use one-half the money, provided I gave him t'
other half; 'for,' said he, 'as you in no way circumvented or
endeavoured to cheat the buyer, be he witch, devil, or fairy, you are
fully entitled to what you asked. The other fifteen pieces,' said he, 'I
will lay up in store for the use of our abbey.' On this assurance I was
well satisfied, so I hastened to get out the purse the little gentleman
had given me; but the worst of it all was that no purse could I find; my
pocket was empty, my purse gone, and the monk rated at me for a knave,
whilst my relation laughed at me for a fool."
"He, he, he--ugh--O dear--O dear!"
"And the horse," said Anne--"the horse? you forgot the horse,
grandfather."
"The horse--oh, ah, true enough--the horse. Why I found him, on my
return home here, grazing quietly in the orchard, with his saddle turned
under his belly, and covered with mud and mire, as if he had been drawn
through all the mosses and sloughs between this and Coventry."
"And you was not at all flustered that night?" said Shakespeare. "Pardon
the question, But I thought the little man in green might have treated
you to an extra cup."
"Body o' me,--what I drunk! Not a whit. I had had just enough to make me
all right. I'd a drunk about as much that night as I have to-night, or
perhaps a quart more."
"And who do you then suppose the buyer was?" inquired Shakespeare.
"Who?" said the old host, "why, who but Robin Goodfellow, his own self!
Who else should it be?"
"True," said Shakespeare, laughing; "there's no question on't."
"A song, a song," said Dick, the shepherd. "Let fair Mistress Anne sing
the song about Robin."
Anne Hathaway accordingly, in a marvellously sweet voice, and to the old
tune of Dulcina, sang some verses, which, although not word for word the
same, in some sort were like the following stanzas:--
I.
From Oberon, in fairy land,
The king of ghosts and shadows there,
Mad Robin I, at his command,
Am sent to view the night sports here.
What revel rout
It kept about
I will o'ersee
And merry be
In every corner where I go,
And make good sport with ho, ho, ho!
II.
When house or hearth doth sluttish lie,
I pinch the maidens black and blue;
The bed-clothes from the bed pull I,
And lay them naked all to view.
'Twixt sleep and wake
I do them take,
And on the clay-cold floor them throw;
If out they cry,
Then forth I fly,
And loudly laugh I, ho, ho, ho.
III.
By wells and rills, in meadows green
We nightly dance out hey-day guise
And to our fairy king and queen
We dance our moonlight minstrelsies.
When larks 'gin sing
Away we fling,
And babes new-born steal as we go,
An elf instead
We leave in bed,
And wind out-laughing, ho, ho, ho![7]
[Footnote 7: This song has been attributed to Ben Jonson, and in the old
black-letter copies it is directed to be sung to the tune of Dulcina. As
it embodies some of the freaks of Robin, I have given it here.]
How much longer Mistress Anne Hathaway's song might have continued it is
impossible to say, but as she finished the last verse steps were heard
without the door, followed by sounds, as if some one in a faint voice
demanded admittance, and then a dull heavy blow, like a person falling,
and which shook the door violently.
The wind piped loud and drear, whilst all paused and listened, and
presently a deep groan, which appeared to come into the very room from
beneath the door, still further startled the party.
The village maidens were too much frightened to cry out, but each threw
herself into the arms of the swain next her, whilst Master Hathaway rose
from his seat, and Shakespeare felt obliged to bestow a kiss upon the
ripe lips of Anne, in order to reassure her.
"Gad-a-mercy," said Hathaway, "'tis surely Robin himself come amongst
us."
"Ah!" said Dame Hathaway, "this comes of singing ribald songs to offend
him. Now the good year; what shall we do to appease the sprite? Ah,
mercy on me, there is another groan, as I am a true woman."
"Some one is surely in distress," said Shakespeare, rising, "suffer me
to unbar the door."
"Troth, I'd rather not," said Hathaway; "since it may be a device of the
evil one to come amongst us."
"Nay, but it may be some wayfarer lost or misled on this inclement
night," said Shakespeare. "A few minutes' neglect may cause death. I
pr'ythee allow me to open and look out. There are enough of us here," he
continued, smiling at the horror-stricken peasants, "to cudgel Puck and
all his crew."
So saying, Shakespeare stepped across to the door, and, drawing the
bolts, quickly opened it, when the body of a man to all appearance dead,
rolled into the apartment.