To" ride comely," to "shoot fairly in bow, or surely in gun," "to hawk, to hunt," were pastimes in which William Shakspere would heartily engage. His plays abound with the most exact descriptions of matters connected with field-sports. In these exercises, " in open place and in the daylight,” would he meet his neighbours; and we may assume that those social qualities which won for him the love of the wisest and the wittiest in his mature years, would be prominent in the frankness and fearlessness of youth. Learned men had despised hunting and hawking-had railed against these sports. Surely Sir Thomas More, he would think, never had hawk on fist, or chased the destructive vermin whose furs he wore, when he wrote, "What delight can there be, and not rather displeasure, in hearing the barking and howling of dogs?"* Erasmus, too, was a secluded scholar. Ascham appreciated these things, because he liked, and loved, and used them. With his "stone-bow" in hand would the boy go forth in search of quail or partridge. It was a difficult weapon—a random shot might hit a man "in the eye," + but it was not so easy when the small bullet flew from the string to bring down the blackbird from the bush. There is abundant game in Fulbrooke. Ever since the attainder of John Dudley it had been disparked; granted by the Crown to a favourite, and again seized upon. A lovely woodland scene was this in the days when Elizabeth took into her own hands the property which her sister had granted to Sir Henry Englefield, now a proscribed wanderer. The boysportsman is on Daisy Hill with his "birding-bow;" but the birds are for a while unheeded. He stops to gaze upon that glorious view of Warwick which here is unfolded. There, bright in the sunshine, at the distance of four or five miles, are the noble towers of the Beauchamps; and there is the lofty church beneath whose roof their pride and their ambition lie low. Behind him is his own Stratford, with its humbler spire. All around is laund and bush, a spot which might have furnished the scene of the Keepers in Henry VI. : "1 Keep. Under this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves; For through this laund anon the deer will come; And in this covert will we make our stand, Culling the principal of all the deer. 2 Keep. I'll stay above the hill, so both may shoot. 1 Keep. That cannot be; the noise of thy cross-bow Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. Here stand we both, and aim we at the best ;"— ‡ a spot to which many a fair dame had been led by gallant forester, with bow bent, and "quarrel" fitted: “ Prin. Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush That we must stand and play the murtherer in? For. Here by, upon the edge of yonder coppice; * Utopia, book ii. chap. 7. Henry VI., Part III., Act III., Scene 1. † “O, for a stone-bow! to hit him in the eye."-Twelfth Night. § Love's Labour 's Lost, Act IV., Scene 1. With the timid deer even the cross-bow scares the herd with its noise. But it was retained in "birding" long after the general use of fire-arms, that the covey might not be scattered. Its silent power of destruction was its principal merit. But as boyhood is thrown off there are nobler pastimes for William Shakspere than those of gun and cross-bow. Like Gaston de Foix "he loved hounds, of all beasts, winter and summer."* He was skilled in the qualities of hounds: he delighted in those of the noblest breed, "So flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung The chase in his day was not a tremendous burst for an hour or two, whose breathless speed shuts out all sense of beauty in the sport. There was harmony in every sound of the ancient hunt-there was poetry in all its associations. Such lines as those which Hippolita utters were not the fancies of a cloistered student "I was with Hercules and Cadmus once, When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear The solemn huntings of princes and great lords, where large assemblies were convened to chase the deer in spaces enclosed by nets, but where the cook and the butler were as necessary as the hunter, were described in stately verse by George Gascoigne. "The noble art of Venerie" seems to have been an admirable excuse for ease and luxury "under the greenwood tree." But the open hunting with the country squire's beagles was a more stirring matter. By daybreak was the bugle sounded; and from the spacious offices of the Hall came forth the keepers, leading their slow-hounds for finding the game, and the foresters with their greyhounds in leash. Many footmen are there in attendance with their quarter-staffs and hangers. Slowly rides forth the master and his friends. Neighbours join them on their way to the wood. There is merriment in their progress, for, as they pass through the village, they stop before the door of the sluggard who ought to have been on foot, singing "Hunt's up to the day: "— § "The hunt is up, the hunt is up, Sing merrily we, the hunt is up; * Lord Berners'' Froissart,' book iii. chap. 26. + Midsummer Night's Dream, Act iv., Scene 1. + Ibid. The birds they sing, Hey nony, nony-no: The hounds they cry, The hunters they fly: Hey troli lo, trololilo. The hunt is up."* It is a cheering and inspiriting tune the réveillée-awakening like the "singing" of the lark, or the "lively din" of the cock. Sounds like these were heard, half a century after the youth of Shakspere, by the student whose poetry scarcely descended to the common things which surrounded him; for it was not the outgushing of the heart over all life and nature; it was the reflection of his own individuality, and the echo of books-beautiful indeed, but not all-comprehensive :— "Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn Through the high wood echoing shrill."+ To the wood leads the chief huntsman. He has tracked the hart or doe to the covert on the previous night; and now the game is to be roused by man and dog. Some of the company may sing the fine old song, as old as the time of Henry VIII.: "Blow thy horn, hunter, Blow thy horn on high. In yonder wood there lieth a doe; In faith she woll not die. Then blow thy horn, hunter, Then blow thy horn, hunter, Then blow thy horn, jolly hunter."‡ The hart is roused. The hounds have burst out in "musical confusion." Soho is cried. The greyhounds are unleashed. And now rush horsemen and footmen over hill-through dingle. A mile or two of sharp running, and he is again in cover. Again the keepers beat the thicket with their staves. He is again in the open field, crossing Ingon Hill. And so it is long before the treblemort is sounded; and the great mystery of "wood-craft," the anatomy of the venison, is gone through with the nicest art, even to the cutting off a bone for the raven.§ It is in his first poem-" the first heir of my invention "-that the sportsman is most clearly to be identified with the youthful Shakspere. Who ever painted. a hare-hunt with such united spirit and exactness? We see the cranks, and crosses, and doubles, of the poor wretch; the cunning with which he causes the * Douce, 'Illustrations of Shakspeare,' vol. ii. p. 192. + Milton, L'Allegro.' The MS. of this fine song is in the British Museum. It has been published by Mr. Chappell. Ben Jonson's 'Sad Shepherd,' Act 1. Scene vi. hounds to mistake the smell; the listening upon a hill for his pursuers; the turning and returning of poor Wat. Who ever described a horse with such a complete mastery of all the points of excellence? In his plays, all the niceties. of falconry are touched upon; and the varieties of hawk-"haggard," "tasselgentle," "eyas-musket,"-spoken of with a master's knowledge. Hawking was the universal passion of his age, especially for the wealthy. Coursing was for the yeomen—such as Master Page. The love of all field-sports lasted half a century longer; and some of Shakspere's great dramatic successors have put out all their strength in their description. There are few things more spirited than the following passage from Massinger : To my country villa: rise before the sun, Cald. You talk of nothing. Dur. This ta'en as a preparative, to strengthen You shall hear such music from their tunable mouths, * Merry Wives of Windsor, Act 1. Scene 1. For we will have variety of delights, We'll to the field again; no game shall rise But we 'll be ready for 't: if a hare, my greyhounds A cast of haggard falcons, by me mann'd, They did turn tail; but with their labouring wings And by turns bind with her; the frighted fowl, With her dreadful beak awhile defers her death, Cald. This cannot be, I grant, But pretty pastime. Dur. Pretty pastime, nephew! 'Tis royal sport. Then, for an evening flight, As he were sent a messenger to the moon, In such a place flies, as he seems to say, See me, or see me not! the partridge sprung, He makes his stoop; but, wanting breath, is forced To cancelier; then, with such speed, as if He carried lightning in his wings, he strikes The passage in which Massinger thus describes what had been presented to his observation is one of the many examples of the rare power which the dramatists of Shakspere's age possessed, the power of seeing nature with their own eyes. But we may almost venture to say that this power scarcely existed in dramatic poetry before Shakspere taught his contemporary poets that there was something better in art than the conventional images of books-the shadows of shadows. The wonderful superiority of Shakspere over all others, in stamping the minutest objects of creation, as well as the highest mysteries of the soul of man, with the impress of truth, must have been derived, in some degree, from his education, working with his genius. All his early experience must have been his education; and we therefore are not attempting mere fan The Guardian, Act 1, Scene 1. The speakers are Durazza and Caldoro. |