WHICH ENDS THIS STRANGE EVENTFUL HISTORY.
The festival held at Kenilworth on occasion of Christmas-tide, was not
on such an extended scale as on former occasions had been customary
there, when Norman kings feasted and kept wassail, and when "kettle-drum
and trumpet brayed out the triumph of their pledge."
In Elizabeth's reign, however, when a noble held a festival in his own
halls, the entertainment was sufficiently magnificent, and conducted
with all the observances of older times.
The late demise of the dark Earl, of necessity curtailed the
hospitalities: yet, still the enjoined rites of the period gave the
Countess an excuse for some circumstance, some little pageantry of the
season. Her brilliant son, too, "the glass of fashion and the mould of
form," was to be with her. And, albeit the party she invited to meet him
was but small, still it was composed of some of the _elite_ of the
country round. Almost all entertainments of this period partook of the
dramatic character, the taste for such was universal; and it seemed,
indeed, as if he who was in reality to create the drama in England, had
sprung up just at this period to supply the want of that which wan so
imperfect, to substitute his own brilliant conceptions for those heavy
long-winded stupid exhibitions then in vogue.
With all her power of persuasion, the Countess had not been able to
persuade her friend, Clara de Mowbray, to promise her presence and
participation during the intended festivities. All she could obtain
being a promise, that, as that lady's departure was fixed to take place
in a few days, she would remain over Christmas-eve; as on that night the
Countess had invited Shakespeare to be present.
The fair Clara had before taken leave of her friend the poet in
Stratford; but still, to see him at Kenilworth, and during the gaieties
enacted there, would, she felt, be a great treat.
The Countess resolved to receive her son in the great hall of the
Castle, an apartment which, those who have carefully perused the
building will doubtless remember,--eighty-six feet long by forty-five in
width. It had, some few years before, beheld those fierce vanities, what
time Leicester, "with pomp, with triumph, and with revelling,"
entertained the Queen and her followers for seventeen successive days;
and now, all in that lighted hall was green with holly and winter
ornaments. The large bow window was festooned with "rarest mistletoe,"
the various arms and trophies were covered with green boughs, whilst the
white-hall, the presence-chamber, and other rooms of which nothing now
remains but the fragments of walls and the staircases which led to
them, were lighted up and ornamented for the nonce. There is ever
something cheering in the aspect of all around at this period of the
year; something bright and joyous in the country, when old Hymns "with
his icy crown," seems to wield his severe sceptre and pervade the scene;
when cottage and castle, lake and forest,--all are bound down by the
sharp and biting frost. The good fellowship of the world seems then more
rife, and Christian feeling and brotherly love to prevail. Perhaps, the
good cheer enjoyed, and expectation of more to be enjoyed, openeth the
heart of men. At Kenilworth, all was hospitality. The Countess was soon
to give up possession to Ambrose, Earl of Warwick, her late husband's
brother; and she resolved to quit the neighborhood in no niggardly
fashion. Butts of ale were broached for the poor in the villages and
hamlets around, and oxen and sheep were roasted. The young Earl was
expected on the eve of Christmas-day, and his popularity was just then
so great, especially in that neighbourhood, that the coming of royalty
itself could scarce have made a greater sensation.
The day was one of excitement to the Countess. Dearly she loved that
brilliant Noble, and well she knew the dizzy pinnacle on which he stood.
Her fears even then anticipated that ruin which was to ensue. Conversant
with "the art o' the Court," and the dangerous mood of Majesty, she saw
already a dark cloud in perspective. Nay, that which she was now about
to do, namely, to receive her son, and entertain him beneath the towers
of Kenilworth, when it came to be known, would be attended with danger.
The Queen liked not interference with her pleasures or her purposes. She
was at that moment seeking to beguile the tedium of the favourite's
absence by visiting the seats of her different nobles; and during which
her irritability was but too apparent. He, the adored, the magnificent,
should on his arrival in England, have bent the knee in all haste, and
asked pardon for his truant disposition. But he was haughty and rash as
his queenly relative. The day had been one of excitement to the fair
Countess. There is ever something to be thought of and arranged, even by
the great. The Earl was to dine _en route_ with his array at Rugby, and
afterwards ride forward to Kenilworth, so as to join the select friends
invited to meet him. In Elizabeth's day nothing was more thought of than
dancing and playing (says Rowland White), and the invitation given by
Lady Leicester might have parodied that of Capulet to his friends. There
came Sir John de Astley and his wife and daughters, the noble knight of
Clopton and his friends consorting, the Lord de la Warde and his
beauteous sisters, the Lady widow of Lord Falconberg, good Master
Murdake and his nieces, Sir Thomas Lucy and his lovely daughters, the
Lady Wolvey, and the lively Throckmorton. These guests, for the most
part, were in the castle, but more were expected as the evening
advanced.
Mistress Bridges, the most beautiful of the Queen's maids of honour, she
whom Essex loved, and of whom the Queen was so jealous that she is said
to have publicly struck her; Blount, too, the lover of the Countess of
Leicester, and the Lady Katharine Howard, all were expected to grace the
assemblage. And, at length, as the Countess and her guests awaited the
hour in the great hall, the trumpet from the gate-house announced the
Earl's arrival.
It was a brilliant sight to behold;--that gallant youth amidst the
associates he brought with him. The magnificent Essex, looking some
paladin of romance, came forth from amidst the glittering band, and
gracefully saluted his handsome mother. A something regal was in his
look, which suited well with that magnificent hall.
Nay, 'twas almost the last occasion on which those buildings entertained
so noble an assemblage: they seem to have afterwards fallen to decay, as
though later times and fashions would be unsuited to their grandeur--as
though their work was done--their hour passed away.
On this night, however, as Essex and his followers entered, there came
one individual with a somewhat smaller party, whose presence was more
worthy of note than oven the Plantagenet Kings who had dwelt there--one
whose name would live
"Spite of cormorant devouring time,
The heir to all eternity."
He passed on with Sir Hugh Clopton and others of lesser note; and after
exchanging a few words with the noble hostess, he perused the assembled
company at his leisure. As he did so, he entered the building called the
White Hall, and stood for a moment to gaze upon all around, for such a
scene was likely to make a deep impression upon his mind. Softly the
sounds of music floated through those vast rooms, and where all he
beheld spoke of the past, and conjured up scenes he has himself
impressed upon us all. For when, indeed, doth sweet music in lordly
chambers, or in solitude, steal upon the ear, but imagination bodies
forth those scenes which Shakespeare, and Shakespeare alone, is
identified with. All the poetry of life is associated in those charming
ideas. The man himself seems to glide around us. At such hour--assembled
amidst the lovely and the high-born, amidst minstrelsy and lighted
halls, there doth his glorious spirit seem to pervade.
And so Shakespeare passed on amidst the company, and quietly took his
way through the gorgeous rooms.
It was evident the poet had before visited those chambers, for he
appeared familiar with the various passages he passed through, till at
length he reached a room at the extremity of the buildings. Here he
stopped, and quietly regarded the apartment, which in its magnificent
style might well have furnished forth the description he has left us in
his own Cymbeline, for Shakespeare adopted in many of his descriptions
the costume of the time.
Whilst he stood, a small door opened, and a figure, lovely as his own
Juliet, advanced towards him. It was Clara de Mowbray! She uttered an
exclamation of joy when she beheld the poet, and in an instant was at
his side. The poet took her hand and led her to a seat, and the pair
held converse together for some time.
Whilst they did so, it was evident the tongue of that poor player made
some impression on his fair hearer.
"Marriage is a matter of more worth, lady," he said, as he at length
rose from his seat; "than to be dealt in by attorneyship. You consent to
an interview with my friend."
Clara, whose eyes were bent upon the ground in deep thought, glanced
quickly upon Shakespeare. There was no mistaking the expression of that
face. He was gazing upon her with feelings of mingled admiration and
regret. The next moment, as if unwilling again to meet her glance, he
turned and hastily left the apartment.
A few minutes more, and the Countess of Leicester entered the room,
accompanied by a tall cavalier, clad in mourning costume. The sad
expression, however, which for many months had suited with his habit,
now however gave place to surprise, joy and admiration; and Walter
Arderne beheld the living original of the portrait his eyes had loved to
dwell upon. He knelt at the feet of Clara de Mowbray.
Our story is now so far ended. The sequel may be gathered "by what went
before." Time and space alloweth not of dilation upon the gay revel held
that night in the halls of Kenilworth. Shakespeare, whose mind was but
ill-fitted for revelry, soon afterwards left the castle.
For some reason, which we are unable to explain, he felt unfitted for
society. He left the hall of Kenilworth, and in the free air gave vent
to the feelings with which he was oppressed. In the woods of Stoneleigh,
the dawn found him, despite the coldness of the season, laying along
"under an oak, whose boughs were mossed with age," and "high top-bald
with dry antiquity." And as his eye glanced from heaven to earth--from
earth to heaven, whilst the deer swept by,[29] his imagination bodied
forth the forms of Jaques and Rosalind in Arden.
[Footnote 29: Amongst the few traditions concerning Shakespeare, in
Warwickshire, there is one which was kindly communicated to me by a
nobleman resident there, namely, that he wrote the character of Jaques,
in the park of Stoneleigh.]
About a fortnight subsequent to the revel at Kenilworth, a noble-looking
cavalier, accompanied by a lady (both mounted and attended by a numerous
retinue,) rode on to the green before old Hathaway's cottage at
Shottery. The cavalier and the lady dismounted, and left their horses
with the attendants, and as they approached the cottage, they conversed
upon the subject of some dearly-loved friend.
"I offered him," said Walter Arderne, "in your name, dearest Clara, half
of what we possess, so he would but remain with us here; but the spirit
of the man is great, and he will pursue his fortunes after his own
fashion. Listen to what himself says;" and Arderne produced a letter,
which he read an extract from, worded somewhat thus:--
"The portion of time I have spent amongst my companions of the theatre
has made me desire to continue in my vocation. The success I have
already achieved gives warranty to my expectations. I have friends, to,
as thou knowest, amongst the nobles of the Court; and the spirit of my
father, which I think is within me, leads me to think I can yet go on
towards even a higher fortune than this that I have reached. In few, I
could not with contentment at this period of my life sit down here in
Stratford. My residence will be at my old haunt, where I shall hope yet
to see those I so dearly love."
"In London, then, we will see him, Walter," said the lady.
"We will so," returned Arderne. "After our marriage, Clara, we will yet
hope to visit our friend."
And should our readers also wish to visit the poet, amidst his
associates of the theatre in London, we will also follow him to his old
haunt in Paul's.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's William Shakespeare as he lived., by Henry Curling