9. IX.
I GO TO CHARLECOTE AND MEET WITH AN ADVENTURE.
The incident which I shall now relate leads me to
speak of a spot connected with a very great writer. I
mean Charlecote, the residence of the Lucy family,
near Cecil Court,—Charlecote, where Will Shakspeare
was seized by Sir Thomas Lucy for trespassing on his
park and shooting deer.
As this adventure has been discredited of late days
by some persons, I will stop here in my narrative to
briefly record the actual truth. 'Twas vouched for to
my father by no less a personage than Will Shakspeare
himself. And this is the story told by the great playwriter,
laughing over his wine at Cecil Court. The
knight's gamekeeper, a huge, black-bearded individual,
had really seized him, he said, whilst trespassing one
moonlight night on Charlecote Park to shoot the deer.
'Twas in company with some roystering young blades
of Stratford, and the affair was a mad frolic; but it
speedily became serious. Shakspeare shot and killed a
stag with his old matchlock, and alarmed the gamekeeper.
At his approach the party fled; but Shakspeare's
foot caught in a root, and he fell. Thereupon
the gamekeeper darted upon him, pinioned his arms
without difficulty, as he was a mere boy and powerless
in his opponent's hands; and, after a night's imprisonment
in the gamekeeper's lodge, he was conducted
before Sir Thomas Lucy, who had been notified of the
fearful outrage upon his rights of landed proprietor.
My father described the account given him by Shakspeare
as excellently entertaining. The irate knight,
Sir Thomas Lucy, he said, sat in awful state in his
great hall at Charlecote, and listened in stern silence
to the animated harangue of his gamekeeper. There
was no doubt of the youth's guilt: he had been caught
in the act, and the dead deer lay on the floor. The
knight gazed on the beardless culprit, burst forth at
length into an address full of rage, and swore that but
for the respectability of his father, John Shakspeare, he
would put him in the stocks. He was finally discharged,
the knight declaring his intention of proceeding
regularly against him for trespass. And, not liking the
aspect of affairs, Shakspeare determined to go with one
of his wild companions to London. He did so, began
writing for the stage, acquired great fame, and when
afterwards he met Sir Thomas, now a gray-haired man,
said, laughing,—
“See, Sir Thomas! 'tis your fault that an excellent
poacher has become but a poor writer of plays!”
Such had been the incident which attached an historic
interest to a plain old manor-house. 'Tis the
fate of places and personages connected with great men
to become famous. Doubtless, outside of Warwickshire
no one had ever heard of Charlecote had not a
scapegrace shot deer there and afterwards written King
Lear and Hamlet.
Well, to come back now to myself and my own
adventure at Charlecote.
Lady Lucy, the wife of Sir Thomas, son of the old
knight, was my firm friend; and one of the first houses
I visited, as soon as I rode out for exercise, was Charlecote.
It was a beautiful day of summer when I
entered the great park and walked my horse slowly
up the long avenue of century elms and oaks. The
old park was exquisite, and quite charmed the eye.
The Avon makes a bend there, and runs through the
grounds, sweeping around the base of a grassy hill.
Some stately swans were sailing majestically upon the
surface of the stream, deer were seen stealing away
through the vistas in the trees, and the rooks were
cawing dreamily in the summits of some great elms,
where they had built their nests, year after year, for
more than a century, 'twas said.
I approached the old mansion,—which was of the
Elizabethan style, with stone groins and shafts, lofty
casements, and armorial bearings cut over the gate,—
entered the little court-yard, where beds of brilliant
flowers delighted the eye, and, giving my horse to a
groom, entered the great hall, with its rows of family portraits
in stiff ruffs and powder, and thence to Lady Lucy's
drawing-room, where I was received most graciously.
Sure, naught on earth is more charming than the
sympathy of woman. Lady Lucy smiled with an exquisite
sweetness as she greeted the poor pale soldier,
pressed my hand with affectionate warmth, and an hour
passed, full of sunshine and sympathy.
At last I rose to go, and had taken my hat and
gloves, when the door, which stood ajar, was thrust open
by some one, and I saw a child standing on the threshold
and looking in furtively. It was a little beauty,—
a girl with rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and profuse brown
curls, about two years of age, and full of health and joy.
I was about to ask the name of this child, for Lady
Lucy had none, when her ladyship rose hastily, exclaiming,—
“Run away, my child! You must not—”
The caution came too late. The little girl ran to the
lady, caught a fold of her dress, looked furtively at me
for a moment, then gradually approached me, grasped
with her tiny hand the feather trailing from my hat,
and, raising her brilliant brown eyes to my face, said,
in baby patois,—
“What dat is?”
“It is a feather, my child,” I said, smiling. “And
now, can you tell me your name?”
Instead of doing so, the little one continued to
regard with the deepest interest the plume depending
from my beaver.
“Your ladyship has a charming little relative there,”
I said, smiling; “but do you know I have not yet had
the honor of an introduction? A sweeter face I never
saw, I think, with its bright eyes and curls.”
Before Lady Lucy could reply, the little maiden
wheeled, and ran to and fro, singing. The song
seemed suggested by the word “curls,” which I had
used: it was a baby lyric, delivered with baby pronunciation,
and was word for word what follows:
“There was a little durl [girl],
And she had a little turl [curl]
Wight in de middle of her for'wid;
When she was good,
She was vewy, vewy good,
And when she was bad she was ho'wid!”
“There, there, my child! the servants have taught
you these foolish songs,” said Lady Lucy; “that is
enough! Run away now!”
“Not before I know the name of my little friend,”
I said, puzzled by Lady Lucy's persistent avoidance
of that point; and, smoothing the child's curls, I
asked, smiling,—
“What is your name, little one?”
“Henwietta Anne.”
The name struck me suddenly. It was that of the
queen's child born at Exeter. I looked quickly at
Lady Lucy.
“Do not ask me anything!” she exclaimed. “You
are a friend of the good cause—I rely upon you; but
this is not my secret: not even to you may I—”
“You may venture to tell Mr. Cecil our secret, Lady
Lucy,” came in low tones from without the door: “he
has seen the princess before,—soon after her birth, at
Exeter.”
And Frances Villiers, mild, calm, queenly, with her
air of unmoved sweetness, glided into the room and
saluted me.
