"Come," said Sir Hugh, who observed this gloomy fit stealing over his party, "we trifle time when we sorrow for what is past and irrevocable.
It draws toward supper time. Remember, neighbours and friends, this is the first time of our meeting together after long years and much misery.
Gloom shall not hold sovereign sway over Clopton again, an I can drive it hence. Music ho!" he said, rising and clapping his hands. ""Fore heaven, nephew, we will e"en be jovial to-night. Have we not Shakespeare here, and can"st forget those scenes he furnished forth at the Blackfriars? Come, let music play, and serve the supper, lads!"
The custom of the period permitted this in the halls of the great. Many of the n.o.bles and even gentry of condition kept up a sort of orchestra or band composed of their own domestics or servitors, and which gave a degree of enjoyment to their entertainment unknown to modern times. The sweet tones of the instruments kept off that starched etiquette, that awkward stiffness oft-times felt during the intervals of conversation, that struggle for wit that came not when called for, it filled up the evening, and the soft strains of melody engendered bright thoughts, whilst they soothed the mind at the same time. Whatever of romance is in our character is called forth at such a time by music.
And so the party sat around the festive board in their quaint costume, old and young, poet and philosopher, whilst as the musicians puffed at tho French horn, and drew forth dulcet sounds from those antiquated stringed instruments, serving-men hastened about, trencher in hand, and bearing liquor on their salvers. Topics of conversation were plentiful, for still flowed the tide of interest concerning each other"s separate fortunes during their career, and the jest"s propriety lay in the ears of those who listened, whilst Shakespeare was the speaker.
Sir Hugh promised his friends a merry Christmas at Clopton; a Christmas observed with all due observance of the time.
In Elizabeth"s day, most people, even of the higher grade of society, kept comparatively early hours. Those who dined at eleven and twelve, necessarily supped at five or six. The supper too, was the most festive meal, and most enjoyed; and when the season of the year, or old custom, gave warranty, your old English host not unfrequently kept wa.s.sail all night long.
On the present occasion the old Knight felt inclined to drink deep and sit late. He seemed resolved for a carouse. Martin and Shakespeare banded about their quaint sayings, and Sir Hugh seemed to revel in the idea of a merry Christmas at Clopton, observed with all due observance of the time; an observance, which in Warwickshire at that day was looked upon by old and young, rich and poor, with a feeling of enjoyment and love amounting to a pa.s.sion. Every sport was got up with religious fervour; every old-world custom regarded with a veneration unknown to our own squalid days.
Christmas Day was at hand, and the old Knight talked of it like a child talks of a new toy; but whilst he spoke of good cheer and wine and wa.s.sail to set before his guests, a reeking post arrived, inviting himself and all consorting him to a feast held during the Christmas week at Kenilworth. The Countess of Leicester greeting her friend Sir Hugh, bade him welcome to her poor house of Kenilworth, to come with hawk and hound, kith, kindred and friends presently consorting him.
The Countess of Leicester was one in whom Sir Hugh had much interest.
She was the daughter of his old friend, Lettice, Lady Knolleys, sister to Carey, Lord Hundsdon.
The Knight pitied her for her misfortune in marrying the evil-minded Leicester, for he had indeed loved her with a paternal affection; albeit the troublous current of his own life had lately hindered him from seeing much of her.
Under these circ.u.mstances, Sir Hugh felt delighted with the invitation, and resolved, if his party agreed, to accept it.
"How say ye, lads," he said, "shall we to this feast? Methinks I should like hugely to visit Kenilworth, and my charming friend, after so many years of absence. How say ye, Walter, shall we dine once more beneath the towers of old John of Gaunt, and Geoffrey Clinton?"
The company, as a matter of course, left it to their entertainer to accept or refuse, as he thought best.
"I am for a revel and a brawl any bow," said Martin, "now I have come once more to a Christian land. Be it at Clopton or Kenilworth, all"s one to Martin."
And so the party resolved to join in the Christmas revels at Kenilworth.
CHAPTER LXIII.
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 wa.s.sail, and when "kettle-drum and trumpet brayed out the triumph of their pledge."
In Elizabeth"s reign, however, when a n.o.ble 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 circ.u.mstance, some little pageantry of the season. Her brilliant son, too, "the gla.s.s 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 subst.i.tute 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 partic.i.p.ation 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 n.i.g.g.ardly fashion. b.u.t.ts 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 n.o.ble, and well she knew the dizzy pinnacle on which he stood.
Her fears even then antic.i.p.ated 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 n.o.bles; 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 n.o.ble 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 Ess.e.x 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 a.s.semblage. 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 a.s.sociates he brought with him. The magnificent Ess.e.x, 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 n.o.ble an a.s.semblage: 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 pa.s.sed away.
On this night, however, as Ess.e.x 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 pa.s.sed on with Sir Hugh Clopton and others of lesser note; and after exchanging a few words with the n.o.ble hostess, he perused the a.s.sembled 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 a.s.sociated in those charming ideas. The man himself seems to glide around us. At such hour--a.s.sembled amidst the lovely and the high-born, amidst minstrelsy and lighted halls, there doth his glorious spirit seem to pervade.
And so Shakespeare pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sages he pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce 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 n.o.bleman 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 n.o.ble-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 n.o.bles 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 a.s.sociates of the theatre in London, we will also follow him to his old haunt in Paul"s.