THE SUITOR.
The confession of the dying priest will doubtless recall to our readers
the state of England at this period. Matters indeed were fast hastening
towards that great event of Elizabeth's reign, which, for its mighty
import, and the magnificence of its preparation, is, perhaps, without a
parallel in the history of the country. The minds of men indeed were at
this time fully impressed with the certainty of some great and terrible
convulsion being at hand. It seemed that a fearful storm was surely and
slowly gathering above their heads, and which, sooner or later, was to
burst upon the land like some torrent breaking bounds. There was no
occasion for men to ask each other from whence this ruin was to come.
The great enemy of the country,--the haughty, vindictive, and cruel foe
of England at this period, was the iron-hearted bigot of Spain: and upon
Spain were the eyes of all men turned with apprehension. 'Twas the
general theme of conversation, the all-absorbing topic of the day; and
torture, murder, and every sort of evil that fiends could inflict upon
the inhabitants of a conquered country was to be expected, should a
successful invasion take place. Yes; Spain was then the bugbear of
nearly every Englishman's fire-side. One or two startling events,
however, which made men "whisper one another in the ear," were to take
place, ere this grand convulsion shook the nation; and yet, amidst the
anxieties consequent upon such a state of things, it is curious how
mankind continue the even tenor of their lives.
The twelfth-tide revel at Shottery had introduced young Shakespeare to
some new acquaintance in that place. Amidst the youths he had met there,
he found one or two lads of spirit; and, as he bent his steps across the
fields towards the village, he would fain have persuaded himself that it
was to renew his acquaintance with them that he had set forth. Ere he
had reached the village, however, he felt obliged to confess that the
real desire of his heart was neither for the companionship of the lads
of the village, nor to learn tidings of the wounded priest, but really
and truly to see again and hold converse with the handsome Anne.
"Oh heaven, were man but constant
He were perfect. That one error
Fills him with faults."
Mortals indeed are prone to error; and he whom we reverence as the
greatest of men, was no more secure from the failings the flesh in heir
to than his fellows. In truth, the youthful Shakespeare was again in
love.
Those of the most generous sentiments and finest feelings are perhaps
more subject to this passion; for,
"Eating love inhabits in the finest wits of all."
It is not to be supposed that the melancholy fate of the beautiful
Charlotte was so soon and entirely forgotten; but youth is not the
season for ever-during melancholy. Bright thoughts will then spring up
amidst the most gloomy recollections; and if one thing more than another
can soothe the cares, and help to "pluck from the memory a rooted
sorrow," it is the sweet companionship of woman in all the brilliancy of
her glowing charms: and so thought Shakespeare as he took his way across
those pleasant fields betwixt his own town and Shottery. "Yes," he said,
as he came within sight of old Hathaway's cottage,
"To heal all grief, to cure all care,
Turn foulest night to fairest day,
To breathe delight, Anne _Hath a way_."
In youth we are more prone to fancy one elder than ourselves. The modest
lad seems to look up to the full-blown woman, and to feel that his
attentions, if received, are bestowed upon a worthy object; that he is
indebted to her who consents to regard one so inferior (as at that
moment he conceives himself) for women profess, in general, whatever
they may feel, a contempt for the attentions of a mere boy, as they term
the lad of seventeen or eighteen--a foolish lad, whom we laught at for
his simple folly and childish admiration. This is dangerous sophistry,
however, for a fair maid to indulge in.
In the middle period of life the fancy of the lover strays towards the
fresh and budding flower, and the coy maiden is often sought out for a
wife. In age, alas, 'tis but second childishness.
When Shakespeare reached the cottage of Master Hathaway, he felt his
heart palpitate as he knocked at the door. His was a new acquaintance,
and he hardly knew how the good yeoman might receive a visit so soon
repeated. The voice of the old dame, however, bidding him come in,
reassured him, and he lifted the latch and entered.
"Ah, Master Shakespeare," said the old dame, who was sitting at her
spinning-wheel, "troth am I right glad to see thee. My husband and I
have been oft-times talking of you since the night you was here."
"And the goodman," said Shakespeare, "is he hearty?"
"Troth is he, and away to Warwick to-day with Goodman Coulter, Hodge the
smith, and others."
"And your fair daughter?" said Shakespeare; "I see her not here. How
fares she?"
"A little dashed in spirit with this matter you wot of--the wayfarer
whom we had to bury yesterday," said the dame.
"He is then dead. I thought his end was near."
"He died soon after you left," said Dame Hathaway. "The crowner sat on's
body, and the man Martin from the Hall was examined with Lawyer Grasp
and Master Dismal, and the man were known to be an escaped traitor. And
so he's buried in a hole like a dog; and there's an end. And a good end
too, if men will go about to compass such mischief as he seems to have
been hatching all his life."
"And fair Mistress Anne," said Shakespeare, "is she too busied like
yourself, 'weaving her thread with bones'?"
"No," said Dame Hathaway, "though she is occupied, she is out in the
orchard with Mopsy, and Lawyer Grasp, and Master Doubletongue."
"Grasp!" exclaimed Shakespeare, as a sort of strange feeling shot across
him; "what doth the scrivener at Shottery?"
The dame smiled, knowingly. "The bright day hath brought him forth
mayhap," said she.
"'Tis the bright day that brings forth the adder," said Shakespeare;
"and that Doubletongue too. I am sorry they are acquainted with Mistress
Anne."
"Why so?" said the dame. "Master Grasp is rich. He hath store of moneys
'tis said. He hath been saying some pretty things to Anne; nay, in good
sooth I think he, _in some sort_, affects her."
"May the pestilence strike the crafty knave!" said Shakespeare to
himself, as a slight pang of jealousy shot through his breast. "He
affect the handsome Anne Hathaway!"
"You know Master Grasp?" said Dame Hathaway, inquiringly.
"I do," said Shakespeare, drily.
"I thought as much," said the good dame, "for I heard his discourse to
Anne, and, sooth to say, he did not speak well of you; nay, he speaks
vilely of you."
"Thank Heaven, therefore," said Shakespeare, smiling; "the praise of the
wicked is less to be coveted than their censure. By your leave I will
seek your daughter in the orchard."
"I pray you do," said Dame Hathaway, "and bid them in to dinner."
When Shakespeare entered the orchard he found the two damsels engaged in
removing apples from a sort of store-house erected at the further end of
it, to another outhouse nearer to the dwelling; and, as the two elderly
swains had gallantly volunteered to assist them in their labours, the
damsels were amusing themselves by taxing their good-nature and strength
to the utmost.
Accordingly as the youth strolled amongst the tree towards them, he
beheld the unhappy Grasp bent double under the weight of an enormous
basket, so filled with apples that he could scarce stagger beneath it,
whilst Anne Hathaway, with both hands, was still piling up more fruit.
Master Doubletongue was similarly loaded, and both the maidens were
laughing till their sides ached at the rueful figures their patient
lovers exhibited.
The situation was indeed felt by the suitors as sufficiently ridiculous,
and when they saw some one approaching both would fain have thrown down
their burthens if they had been able.
"Nay, I pray thee, Good Mistress Anne," said Grasp, "give me not the
entire produce of the orchard at one turn. I am neither Hercules nor
Atlas. My back is well nigh broke, as well as my heart, by your cruelty.
I would fain stand upright. Heaven relieve me," he muttered to himself,
"from this pestilent load."
"My strength sufficeth not to remove so large a load," said Anne, still
laughing, "all I can do is to take them out by degrees, as I have placed
them _one by one_!"
"I should die ere relieved by so slow a process," said Grasp. "Oh, my
back, my weary back is cramped with long suffering and weight of
apples."
"Then trudge off, and throw them into yonder wood-house," said Anne.
"I'll never entertain your services if you are thus idle."
"I cannot budge a foot," said Grasp, "I am, as it were, rooted in the
snow. Heaven help me."
"Stop whilst I give you this small basketfull," said Anne, emptying more
apples into the load.
"Nay, then, I can no longer bear it," said Grasp; and he sank upon his
knees, whilst both the lasses kept piling more apples upon his head.
"I am utterly foredone, and must fain succumb," said Grasp; "my better
parts are vanquished, lo, I fall," and, as he sank under his burthen,
the huge load rolled in heaps around him.
"I shall be crushed, altogether crushed and flattened like a
shrove-groat shilling," said Master Doubletongue. "I pray you, fair
damsel, to help me down with this burthen. I would fain do my best in
your service, but I am not able, I find, to do the work of a younger
man."
But the saucy maidens, having brought their two admirers to their
present doleful state, as soon as they saw young Shakespeare
approaching, ran, shrieking with laughter to meet him, leaving their
swains to extricate themselves as they best could.
"I do perceive that I am made an exceeding ass of by this lively
virgin," said Grasp, gathering himself up from amongst the rolling
apples; "nevertheless her comeliness and favour hath quite entamed my
spirits to her worship. I would fain contract a marriage, and the good
yeoman her father is right willing to receive me for a son-in-law."
"And I," said Doubletongue, "should greatly like to wive also, an I
could achieve the maiden Mopsy. Mass, but she is fresh as an April morn,
and strong as a porter. Would to Heaven she had relieved me of this
burthen ere she fled! Help me down with it, good Grasp, an you love me."
"Who was that I saw approaching when the maidens deserted us?" inquired
Grasp. "See, they are now returning with him into the house, without so
much as 'I thank ye,' for all we have done for them."
"'Tis surely young Shakespeare," said Doubletongue, "your sometime
clerk."
"Oh, the young scapegallows," said Grasp, "by my fay, and so it is. His
presence here bodes no good to my suit, and I have already possessed
Mistress Anne with my opinion of him. Nay, Sir Thomas Lucy hath spoken
with me about him, too. The dare-devil lad hath somehow offended Sir
Thomas, and he vows to deal hardly with him an he can catch him
trespassing on his domain. I'll stir him further to't."
"He hath trespassed upon our domains here too, I think, and carried off
my sweet friend Mopsy," said Doubletongue. "I'll abuse the varlet
where'er I come."
"Thou canst not say worse of him than he deserves," said Grasp; "an I
can but once catch him tripping, I'll be his ruin yet."
"Methinks we bad better wend our steps back to Stratford this morning,"
said Doubletongue. "I am sore wearied, and sorely nipped with the cold
blast. The pestilence seize this Shakespeare, I had rather not encounter
him."
"I would we were both rid of him," said Grasp; "albeit I am somewhat
sorry to leave him in the company of the fair Anne; such a
smooth-tongued varlet is sufficient to corrupt a whole village."
"Let us slink by and get a peep in at the window," said Doubletongue;
and the worthy pair of friends left the orchard.
On that evening a youth and a village maiden were soon strolling quietly
along the footpath leading from Shottery to Stratford-upon-Avon. The
youth, with head inclined, was telling a soft tale in the ear of his
companion--a tale such as evidently was pleasing to her, for her
handsome face was radiant with smiles. There was something in the step
and bearing of both which proclaimed them superior to the common ran of
mortals: albeit their costume was but a degree removed from, and in
somewhat better taste than that of the peasant of the period. Both were
extremely handsome, and it was evident they were lovers, inasmuch as
(although the occasional passer seldom failed to stop and turn to regard
them) they were so entirely wrapped in each other's society that they
seemed lost to all external objects.
As they reached a part of the path which in crossed by the high road,
they stopped, and a stately knight, accompanied by two ladies, and
attended by several mounted serving men, rode by. The ladies seemed
struck with the form of the handsome maiden; and the cavalier, after
passing, turned and leant upon the cantle of his saddle, and steadily
regarded the youth.
"'Tis he," said the Knight of Charlecote, to himself, "and the girl is
Hathaway's daughter. 'Tis pity she should mate with so reckless a
youth."
"Who, said ye, they are?" inquired the elder daughter of Sir Thomas;
"methinks I have seen the youth at Clopton Hall."
"See him when and where thou wilt, Alicia," returned the knight, "I fear
me you will have seen but a graceless suitor, from all I have learned
through the scrivener Grasp. 'Tis the wool-comber's eldest son, young
Shakespeare of Stratford."
After this brief discourse, the party rode on.