STRATFORD-ON-AVON.
Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream Of things more than mortalsweet Shakespeare would dream The fairies by moonlight dance round hisgreen bed, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.
GARRICK.
TO a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he cantruly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of something likeindependence and territorial consequence when, after a weary day'stravel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, andstretches himself before an inn-fire. Let the world without go as itmay, let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to payhis bill he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys.The armchair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the littleparlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morselof certainly snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of life; itis a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day: and he who hasadvanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence knows the importance ofhusbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. "Shall I not take mineease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back inmy elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlor ofthe Red Horse at Stratford-on-Avon.
The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through my mind asthe clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in which he liesburied. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid,putting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether Ihad rung. I understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire.My dream of absolute dominion was at an end; so abdicating my throne,like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting theStratford Guide-Book under my arm as a pillow companion, I went to bed,and dreamt all night of Shakespeare, the jubilee, and David Garrick.
The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we sometimeshave in early spring, for it was about the middle of March. The chillsof a long winter had suddenly given way; the north wind had spent itslast gasp; and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing thebreath of life into Nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burstforth into fragrance and beauty.
I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit was tothe house where Shakespeare was born, and where, according to tradition,he was brought up to his father's craft of wool-combing. It is a smallmean-looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place ofgenius, which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners.The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names andinscriptions in every language by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, andconditions, from the prince to the peasant, and present a simple butstriking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind tothe great poet of Nature.
The house is shown by a garrulous old lady in a frosty red face, lightedup by a cold blue, anxious eye, and garnished with artificial locksof flaxen hair curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She waspeculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like allother celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock ofthe very matchlock with which Shakespeare shot the deer on his poachingexploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box, which proves that he was arival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh: the sword also with which he playedHamlet; and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discoveredRomeo and Juliet at the tomb. There was an ample supply also ofShakespeare's mulberry tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powersof self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross, of which there isenough extant to build a ship of the line.
The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shakespeare's chair.It stands in a chimney-nook of a small gloomy chamber just behind whatwas his father's shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy,watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing of an urchin, orof an evening listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford dealingforth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome timesof England. In this chair it is the custom of every one that visits thehouse to sit: whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any ofthe inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say; I merely mention thefact, and mine hostess privately assured me that, though built of solidoak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees the chair had to be newbottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, inthe history of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes something ofthe volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chairof the Arabian enchanter; for, though sold some few years since to anorthern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back againto the old chimney-corner.
I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing to bedeceived where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I am thereforea ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of goblinsand great men, and would advise all travellers who travel for theirgratification to be the same. What is it to us whether these stories betrue or false, so long as we can persuade ourselves into the beliefof them and enjoy all the charm of the reality? There is nothing likeresolute good-humored credulity in these matters, and on this occasion Iwent even so far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to alineal descent from the poet, when, unluckily for my faith, she put intomy hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in her ownconsanguinity at defiance.
From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought me to hisgrave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a large andvenerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. It stands onthe banks of the Avon on an embowered point, and separated by adjoininggardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet andretired; the river runs murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, andthe elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clearbosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced,so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gateof the yard to the church-porch. The graves are overgrown with grass;the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are halfcovered with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old building.Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and fissures ofthe walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirping; and rooks aresailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire.
In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed sexton, Edmonds,and accompanied him home to get the key of the church. He had lived inStratford, man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to considerhimself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception that he had nearlylost the use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was acottage looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows, and was apicture of that neatness, order, and comfort which pervade the humblestdwellings in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone floorcarefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewterand earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table,well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, and thedrawer contained the family library, composed of about half a scoreof well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that important article ofcottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the room, witha bright warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man'shorn-handled Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wideand deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one cornersat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, and inthe opposite corner was a superannuated crony whom he addressed bythe name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion fromchildhood. They had played together in infancy; they had worked togetherin manhood; they were now tottering about and gossiping away the eveningof life; and in a short time they will probably be buried together inthe neighboring churchyard. It is not often that we see two streams ofexistence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; it is only insuch quiet "bosom scenes" of life that they are to be met with.
I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard fromthese ancient chroniclers, but they had nothing new to impart. The longinterval during which Shakespeare's writi
ngs lay in comparative neglecthas spread its shadow over his history, and it is his good or evil lotthat scarcely anything remains to his biographers but a scanty handfulof conjectures.
The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters on thepreparations for the celebrated Stratford Jubilee, and theyremembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who superintended thearrangements, and who, according to the sexton, was "a short punch man,very lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cutting downShakespeare's mulberry tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket forsale; no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary conception.
I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubiously ofthe eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare house. John Ange shookhis head when I mentioned her valuable and inexhaustible collectionof relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry tree; and the oldsexton even expressed a doubt as to Shakespeare having been born in herhouse. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evileye, as a rival to the poet's tomb, the latter having comparatively butfew visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, andmere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into different channelseven at the fountain-head.
We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and entered by aGothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors of massive oak. Theinterior is spacious, and the architecture and embellishments superiorto those of most country churches. There are several ancient monumentsof nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons andbanners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is inthe chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave beforethe pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance fromthe walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spotwhere the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said tohave been written by himself, and which have in them something extremelyawful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude aboutthe quiet of the grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities andthoughtful minds:
Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare To dig the dust inclosed here. Blessed be he that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones.
Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakespeare,put up shortly after his death and considered as a resemblance. Theaspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely-arched forehead; and Ithought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful,social disposition by which he was as much characterized among hiscontemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscriptionmentions his age at the time of his decease, fifty-three years--anuntimely death for the world, for what fruit might not have beenexpected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it wasfrom the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine ofpopular and royal favor?
The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its effect. It hasprevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his native placeto Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contemplated. A few yearssince also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault,the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch,through which one might have reached into his grave. No one, however,presumed to meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by a malediction;and lest any of the idle or the curious or any collector of relicsshould be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch overthe place for two days, until the vault was finished and the apertureclosed again. He told me that he had made bold to look in at thehole, but could see neither coffin nor bones--nothing but dust. It wassomething, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakespeare.
Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter,Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is afull-length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious memory,on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are othermonuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that is notconnected with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the place; the whole pileseems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwartedby doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence: other traces of him may befalse or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty.As I trod the sounding pavement there was something intense andthrilling in the idea that in very truth the remains of Shakespeare weremouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I could prevailupon myself to leave the place; and as I passed through the churchyardI plucked a branch from one of the yew trees, the only relic that I havebrought from Stratford.
I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, but I hada desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys at Charlecot, and toramble through the park where Shakespeare, in company with some ofthe roisterers of Stratford, committed his youthful offence ofdeer-stealing. In this harebrained exploit we are told that he was takenprisoner and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he remained all nightin doleful captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucyhis treatment must have been galling and humiliating; for it so wroughtupon his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade which was affixed tothe park gate at Charlecot.*
This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so incensed himthat he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of the lawsin force against the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakespeare did not waitto brave the united puissance of a knight of the shire and a countryattorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon andhis paternal trade; wandered away to London; became a hanger-on to thetheatres; then an actor; and finally wrote for the stage; andthus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost anindifferent wool-comber and the world gained an immortal poet. Heretained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment ofthe lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writings, but inthe sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be theoriginal of Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him bythe justice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the knight, hadwhite luces+ in the quarterings.
* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon:
A parliament member, a justice of peace, At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. He thinks himself great; Yet an asse in his state, We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it.
+ The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot.
Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften and explainaway this, early transgression of the poet; but I look upon it as oneof those thoughtless exploits natural to his situation and turn of mind.Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness and irregularityof an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetictemperament has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When left toitself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in everything eccentricand licentious. It is often a turn up of a die, in the gambling freaksof fate, whether a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue or agreat poet; and had not Shakespeare's mind fortunately taken a literarybias, he might have as daringly transcended all civil as he has alldramatic laws.
I have little doubt that, in early life, when running like an unbrokencolt about the neighborbood of Stratford, he was to be found in thecompany of all kinds of odd anomalous characters, that he associatedwith all the madcaps of the place, and was one of those unlucky urchinsat mention of whom old men shake their heads and predict that they willone day come to the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy'spark was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struckhis eager, and as yet untamed, imagination as something delightfullyadventurous.*
* A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associates in his youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his "Picturesque Views on the Avon."
About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market-town ofBedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry usedto meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challengethe lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest ofdrinking. Among others, the people of Stratford were called out to provethe strength of their heads; and in the number of the champions wasShakespeare, who, in spite of the proverb that "they who drink beerwill think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. Thechivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded aretreat while they had yet the legs to carry them off the field. Theyhad scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they wereforced to lie down under a crab tree, where they passed the night. Itwas still standing, and goes by the name of Shakespeare's tree.
In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed returning toBedford, but he declined, saying he had enough, having drank with
Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford.
"The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the epithetsthus given them: the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skillon the pipe and tabor; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough; andGrafton is famous for the poverty of its soil."
The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still remain inthe possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly interesting frontbeing connected with this whimsical but eventful circumstance in thescanty history of the bard. As the house stood at little more than threemiles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit,that I might stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from whichShakespeare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery.
The country was yet naked and leafless, but English scenery is alwaysverdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the weatherwas surprising in its quickening effects upon the landscape. It wasinspiring and animating to witness this first awakening of spring; tofeel its warm breath stealing over the senses; to see the moist mellowearth beginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade, andthe trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting buds, givingthe promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, thatlittle borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chastewhite blossoms in the small gardens before the cottages. The bleatingof the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrowtwittered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin threwa livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain; and the lark,springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into thebright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. As I watched thelittle songster mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a merespeck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filledwith his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song inCymbeline:
Hark! hark! the lark at heav'n's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs, On chaliced flowers that lies.
And winking mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With every thing that pretty bin, My lady sweet arise!
Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground: everything isassociated with the idea of Shakespeare. Every old cottage that I sawI fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where he had acquired hisintimate knowledge of rustic life and manners, and heard those legendarytales and wild superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft intohis dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular amusement inwinter evenings "to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errantknights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves,cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars."*
* Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a of these fireside fancies: "And they have so fraid us with host bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-goodfellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes."
My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which madea variety of the most fancy doublings and windings through a wide andfertile valley--sometimes glittering from among willows which fringedits borders; sometimes disappearing among groves or beneath green banks;and sometimes rambling out into full view and making an azure sweepround a slope of meadow-land. This beautiful bosom of country is calledthe Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seemsto be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening landscape lies in amanner enchained in the silver links of the Avon.
After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into afootpath, which led along the borders of fields and under hedgerows to aprivate gate of the park; there was a stile, however, for the benefit ofthe pedestrian, there being a public right of way through the grounds.I delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one has a kindof property--at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It in somemeasure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and, what is more, to thebetter lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and pleasure-groundsthrown open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely andlolls as luxuriously under the shade as the lord of the soil; and if hehas not the privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not,at the same time, the trouble of paying for it and keeping it in order.
I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whose vast sizebespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded solemnly amongtheir branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in thetree-tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothingto interrupt the view but a distant statue and a vagrant deer stalkinglike a shadow across the opening.
There is something about these stately old avenues that has the effectof Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended similarity ofform, but from their bearing the evidence of long duration, and ofhaving had their origin in a period of time with which we associateideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the long-settled dignityand proudly-concentrated independence of an ancient family; and I haveheard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of thesumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that "money could do much withstone and mortar, but thank Heaven! there was no such thing as suddenlybuilding up an avenue of oaks."
It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, and aboutthe romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, which thenformed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shakepeare's commentatorshave supposed he derived his noble forest meditations of Jaques andthe enchanting woodland pictures in "As You Like It." It is in lonelywanderings through such scenes that the mind drinks deep but quietdraughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beautyand majesty of Nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and rapture,vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon it, and we revelin a mute and almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in somesuch mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees before me, whichthrew their broad shades over the grassy banks and quivering waters ofthe Avon, that the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that littlesong which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary
Unto the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry throat Unto the sweet bird's note, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy, But winter and rough weather.
I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building of brickwith stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth's day,having been built in the first year of her reign. The exterior remainsvery nearly in its original state, and may be considered a fair specimenof the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of tho
se days. A greatgateway opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in front of thehouse, ornamented with a grassplot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gatewayis in imitation of the ancient barbacan, being a kind of outpost andflanked by towers, though evidently for mere ornament, instead ofdefence. The front of the house is completely in the old style withstone-shafted casements, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and aportal with armorial bearings over it carved in stone. At each cornerof the building is an octagon tower surmounted by a gilt ball andweather-cock.
The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at the footof a gently-sloping bank which sweeps down from the rear of the house.Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon its borders, andswans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated thevenerable old mansion I called to mind Falstaff's encomium on JusticeShallow's abode, and the affected indifference and real vanity of thelatter:
"Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. Shallow. Barren,barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John:--marry, good air."
Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in the days ofShakespeare, it had now an air of stillness and solitude. The great irongateway that opened into the courtyard was locked, there was no showof servants bustling about the place; the deer gazed quietly at me as Ipassed, being no longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. Theonly sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat stealing withwary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefariousexpedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crowwhich I saw suspended against the barn-wall, as it shows that the Lucysstill inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers and maintain thatrigorous exercise of territorial power which was so strenuouslymanifested in the case of the bard.
After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way to alateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the mansion. I wascourteously received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civilityand communicativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the house.The greater part has undergone alterations and been adapted to moderntastes and modes of living: there is a fine old oaken staircase, and thegreat hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retainsmuch of the appearance it must have had in the days of Shakespeare. Theceiling is arched and lofty, and at one end is a gallery in which standsan organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly adornedthe hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family portraits.There is a wide, hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ampleold-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying-place of winterfestivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothicbow-window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. Hereare emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy familyfor many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted toobserve in the quarterings the three white luces by which the characterof Sir Thomas was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. Theyare mentioned in the first scene of the "Merry Wives of Windsor," wherethe justice, is in a rage with Falstaff for having "beaten his men,killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." The poet had no doubt theoffences of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we maysuppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shallowto be a caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas.
"Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star Chamber matterof it; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Sir RobertShallow, Esq.
Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace and coram.
Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum.
Slender. Ay, and ratolorum too, and a gentleman born, master parson; whowrites himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation,Armigero.
Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundredyears.
Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all hisancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen white lucesin their coat....
Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot.
Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no fear ofGot in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear ofGot, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that.
Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should endit!"
Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait, by Sir Peter Lely,of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of Charlesthe Second: the old housekeeper shook her head as she pointed to thepicture, and informed me that this lady had been sadly addicted tocards, and had gambled away a great portion of the family estate, amongwhich was that part of the park where Shakespeare and his comrades hadkilled the deer. The lands thus lost had not been entirely regained bythe family even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreantdame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm.
The picture which most attracted my attention was a great painting overthe fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his familywho inhabited the hall in the latter part of Shakespeare's lifetime.I at first thought that it was the vindictive knight himself, but thehousekeeper assured me that it was his son; the only likeness extantof the former being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of theneighboring hamlet of Charlecot.*
* This effigy is in white marble, and represents the knight in complete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the following inscription; which, if really composed by her husband, places him quite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow:
Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of this wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and faythful servant of her good God, never detected of any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband most faythful and true. In friendship most constant; to what in trust was committed unto her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse with her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her betters; misliked of none unless of the envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee lived most virtuotisly so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be true.
Thomas Lucye.
The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of the time.Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet, white shoes with roses inthem, and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, "acane-colored beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side of thepicture in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have a mostvenerable stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels aremingled in the family group; a hawk is seated on his perch in theforeground, and one of the children holds a bow, all intimating theknight's skill in hunting, hawking, and archery, so indispensable to anaccomplished gentleman in those days.*
* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, "His housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs and serving-men attendant on their kennels; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, "He kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, ho
unds, and spaniels."
I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall haddisappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow-chair ofcarved oak in which the country squire of former days was wont to swaythe sceptre of empire over his rural domains, and in which it might bepresumed the redoubled Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state whenthe recreant Shakespeare was brought before him. As I like to deck outpictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea thatthis very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's examination onthe morning after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself therural potentate surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, andblue-coated serving-men with their badges, while the luckless culpritwas brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of gamekeepers,huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of countryclowns. I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from thehalf-opened doors, while from the gallery the fair daughters of theknight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner with thatpity "that dwells in womanhood." Who would have thought that this poorvarlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a country squire,and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight ofprinces, the theme of all tongues and ages, the dictator to the humanmind and was to confer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature anda lampoon?
I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I feltinclined to visit the orchard and harbor where the justice treated SirJohn Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a last year's pippin of his owngrafting, with a dish of caraways;" but I had already spent so muchof the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to give up any furtherinvestigations. When about to take my leave I was gratified by thecivil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler that I would take somerefreshment--an instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say,we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it isa virtue which the present representative of the Lucys inherits fromhis ancestors; for Shakespeare, even in his caricature, makes JusticeShallow importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing instancesto Falstaff:
"By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night..... I will notexcuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted;there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused.... Somepigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens; a joint of mutton; and anypretty little tiny kickshaws, tell 'William Cook.'"
I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become socompletely possessed by the imaginary scenes and characters connectedwith it that I seemed to be actually living among them. Everythingbrought them as it were before my eyes, and as the door of thedining-room opened I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of MasterSilence quavering forth his favorite ditty:
"'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, And welcome merry Shrove-tide!"
On returning to my inn I could not but reflect on the singular gift ofthe poet, to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the veryface of Nature, to give to things and places a charm and characternot their own, and to turn this "working-day world" into a perfectfairy-land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates,not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under thewizard influence of Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a completedelusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry,which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had beensurrounded with fancied beings, with mere airy nothings conjured upby poetic power, yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I hadheard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalindand her companion adventuring through the woodlands; and, above all,had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and hiscontemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow down to the gentleMaster Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors andblessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of lifewith innocent illusions, who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasuresin my chequered path, and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour withall the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life!
As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused tocontemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, and couldnot but exult in the malediction which has kept his ashes undisturbedin its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor could his name havederived from being mingled in dusty companionship with the epitaphsand escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude? What woulda crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with thisreverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his solemausoleum! The solitude about the grave may be but the offspring ofan overwrought sensibility; but human nature is made up of foibles andprejudices, and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with thesefactitious feelings. He who has sought renown about the world, and hasreaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that thereis no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as thatwhich springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to begathered in peace and honor among his kindred and his early friends. Andwhen the weary heart and failing head begin to warn him that the eveningof life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant tothe mother's arms to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of hischildhood.
How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard when,wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavylook upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen that before manyyears he should return to it covered with renown; that his name shouldbecome the boast and glory of his native place; that his ashes shouldbe religiously guarded as its most precious treasure; and that itslessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation,should one day become the beacon towering amidst the gentle landscape toguide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb!
The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon Page 29