_Stratford—Shakspeare._
Only nine miles to Stratford-upon-Avon! With what a flush of delighted
expectation I climbed the coach, and left the Warwick Arms, in the hope
of beholding with my eyes, in less than two short hours, the home of
Shakspeare, and that world-famous church to which he bequeathed his
bones! And yet there was something like a misgiving at the heart. My
imagination had been familiar, for years, with a certain ideal of
Stratford, that had grown into my whole structure of thought concerning
Shakspeare and his times. It had been constructed from here a print, and
there a traveller’s tale, and had taken life and beauty from detached
anecdotes, and little inklings of historic light, that had come sweetly
to me from my boyhood, in some inexplicable manner. In part the product
of enthusiastic study, when college oil, that should have been burned in
honour of Euclid, and Napier, and Newton, was stealthily sacrificed at
the shrine of the great master of the human heart, I had possessed for
years, a Stratford of my own; a pet village of my soul, such as
Shakspeare should have lived in: and now—in a few hours, all this was
to be deposed forever; dull realities were to eclipse the brilliant
picture of the fancy, and thenceforth I must know only the Stratford of
fact. Would the realization pay me for the downfall of the vision? Alas!
what is life but a continual balance between loss and gain; what
pleasure do we acquire, without the sacrifice of something almost as
sweet? How long the boy looks at his bright penny before he gives it for
the toothsome sugar-plum; and how often the bright penny comes back to
him, as the substantial wealth, of which the moment’s gratification has
deprived him.
As the coach began to draw near Stratford, I found myself greatly
excited; and every object began to assume a sort of conscious connection
with immortal genius. The very road,—but much more the trees,—and even
more, those features of the landscape which might be supposed unchanged
by the lapse of centuries, seemed instinct with their past communion
with a great creative mind. His spell was on them. He had once been
familiar with these scenes. He had gathered many an image, many a
thought, and, I doubt not, many a refreshing hope, from intercourse with
their spring and summer beauties; and they had been not less instructive
to him, perhaps, in the season of the sere-leaf, or in that of the
wintry wind. Yonder was Charlecote—beyond the Avon: its park still
stretching thro’ the vale, and hiding the old historic hall. But the
thought of that juvenile deer-stalking, gave speaking life to even the
distant scene. There is some sensitive principle in our nature, to which
such associations so powerfully appeal, that nothing is more real, for a
time, than the communion we hold with departed greatness, through the
medium of objects with which it was once conversant. This reality I
never felt so strongly as now. At last we came in sight of that
“star-ypointing pyramid”—the spire of Stratford. The gentle tumult of
feelings with which it ruffled my inmost nature, for a moment, and the
calm enjoyment that succeeded, were enough to pay me for crossing the
Atlantic.
I was duly set down at the Red Horse Inn, and ushered into the trim
little parlour, and even into the elbow-chair, of which I had read,
aforetime, in the pages of Geoffrey Crayon. Mine host readily recognizes
an American, and never fails to produce, on such an occasion, the
“sceptre” of the said Geoffrey, wherewith he once poked the coals, in
the smoking grate of said parlour, and, for a tranquil moment, was
“monarch of all he surveyed.” Indeed, if Shakspeare reigns in Stratford,
it must be allowed that the Red Horse is, nevertheless, the principality
of Crayon, and that it is rapidly rising into a formidable rivalship of
New Place, and the Guildhall, on the strength of Crayon’s reputation, to
say nothing of the landlord’s ale. In short, no visitor to Stratford has
ever left there such a lasting impression of his footsteps, as our own
delightful Irving: and it was pleasant, indeed, thus, at the very
threshold of my visit, to find, even in the broad glare of Shakspeare’s
glory, the star of our countryman revolving steadily in its own peculiar
orbit, and shining as no mean satellite of that great central sun of
Anglo-Saxon literature.
I should be a bold man, indeed, to attempt to add anything to Irving’s
description of Stratford-upon-Avon. I have only the adventures of my day
to tell of, and they were few and simple. I followed in the beaten track
to the old tumble-down cottage, which is called the birth-place of
Shakspeare, and which was doubtless the scene of his infancy. I
recognized at once, the original of many a well-thumbed print, and of
many a descriptive page. Timber from the forest of Arden; clay from the
bed of the Avon; sticks and mud at best compose the nest in which the
Mighty Mother brought the immortal Swan to light. It was once a better
nest than now. A butcher has degraded it to serve as shambles, and it
has yet the appearance of a stall for meat, although it is no longer
used, except as a relic, the show-woman being its only tenant. Here, in
spite of its transmutations, you cannot but fancy the elder Shakspeare,
“with spectacles on nose,” sitting in the spacious chimney, and teaching
little Will his alphabet, or telling him, beside the winter’s fire, of
the “mysteries” he had seen played, near by, at Coventry, when he was a
boy. Through the door, you seem yet to see the marvellous urchin, with
his satchel, creeping unwillingly to school: or, back he comes, with
shining face, to tell that the Queen’s players have just arrived from
London, to play “Troy-town,” at the Guildhall! Here, at all events, day
after day went over that mysterious young head, filling it with
impressions, not one of which ever seems to have escaped it, and
preparing its tenant genius to be the great bridge between old and
modern England, by means of which, feeling, as well as fact, runs on
continuously, in the line of English History, and gives it a unity and a
vitality which the annals of other nations lack. Oh, strange, immortal,
universal Will! How supernatural the interest that hangs about thine
every step, from the cradle to the grave.
You ascend a few creaking stairs, and you are in the very room where the
first of his Seven Ages was, no doubt, duly signalized by himself,
“mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.” How many lives have been the
mere pendants of the life that here flickered in its first lighting, and
which a puff of air might have put out—the world none the sadder for
its loss! Yet now, how supreme the dominion of that one soul, these
scribbled walls attest; where vulgar enthusiasm is not more legible,
than that of the worldly great, of foreign scholars and sovereign
princes, and of intellectual autocrats scarce less imperial than
Shakspeare himself. How powerful the inspiration of the _genius loci_,
is best proved by the fact that among the scribblings one reads the
autograph of Walter Scott. Verily, there is no fame like Shakspeare’s!
Subduing, as he does, the instincts of all classes alike, and entering
as he does, into the sympathies of all nations, he must be regarded less
as a man of genius, than as a noble instrument of God, for subordinating
human passions and affections to some superior purpose of His own,
perhaps not yet conceived. The rise of a Christian literature, and that
the purest which the world has ever possessed, is dated from the age of
which he was the bright peculiar star; and the whole Anglo-Saxon race
must ever recognize in him the original master of many of its forms of
thought, a rich contributor to its idiom and language, and the
constructor of some of its strongest sentiments of civilization, of
morals, and of religion.
The site of the New Place is occupied by a solid mansion, which, devoid
of interest in itself, commands a moment’s attention, as occupying the
spot on which Shakspeare’s prosperous days were passed, and which was
emphatically his home. All that remains of him, in this place, and its
immediate neighbourhood, is nevertheless soon seen and dismissed, as
nothing but the enthusiasm of an idolator would detect anything
specially attractive in a statue set up by Garrick at the Town Hall, and
a few other memorials, too minute, or too modern, to deserve much delay
in their inspection. I reserved my raptures for the walk to Shottery.
Striking into the fields, I pleased myself with the conviction that air
and earth are still very much the same in them, as when the boy
Shakspeare played truant, and sported among their sweets. The birds and
the flowers are still as gay as when he preferred to learn their
lessons, rather than the schoolmaster’s; and when I turned into a shady
lane, all green and white with hawthorn, or plucked the peas’ blossom in
the upland, or the buttercup and daisy in the meadow, I felt sure that
his foot had fallen where they grew, and that they had given him
pleasure, and taught him morals, which the world has willingly taken at
second-hand, and will never “willingly let die.” Yes, the very labouring
oxen, and the pasturing cows, seemed to me of a superior breed.
Short-horn, or Devonshire, or whatever they may be to the farmer, they
were, in my esteem, not less than Shaksperean beef fed on the grass of
Stratford, and feeding my imagination with images of the animated nature
of the same scenery, as it was three hundred years ago. I came to
several pretty farm cottages, with shrubbery in their little door-yards,
and at one of these I knocked, thinking it must be Anne Hathaway’s; but
the damsel who opened the door seemed not much flattered by the inquiry,
for Anne, though she was Shakspeare’s wife, was not an honest woman, by
the parish register, and has little honour in her own village. However,
the damsel pointed out my way, with milk-maid courtesy, and away I went
with traveller-like apologies. Here, then, at last, was the scene of
Will’s discreditable courtship; and here, if they deceived me not,
descendants of the Hathaways live still. The house is in two parts, like
nave and chancel in ecclesiastical architecture; timbered and plastered,
like the birth-place aforesaid, and thatched in the picturesque style so
dear to Crayon artists and sketchers; its little windows peeping out of
the straw, like sharp eyes under the shaggy brows of an old pensioner,
sunning himself in front of an ale-house. I am glad to say that roses,
and other flowers, were duly set about the cottage, as one which I
plucked, and brought away, bears witness. They showed me some old
Hathaway furniture, and among others an enormous bedstead of Elizabethan
date, on which, they would have me believe, that many of the poet’s
dreams had visited him. There was also an ancient oaken chair: and
finally, some bed and table linen was taken out of an old chest. It was
evidently homespun, and they believed it to be Anne’s work, as well as
property. With this view of the matter, however, the initials E. H. did
not entirely agree, and although I was inclined to yield this objection
at the moment, when credulity was allowable, I do not now flatter myself
that I have seen the bedstead or the bed-clothes of Shakspeare. It is
something better that I have seen the Church in which he was christened,
and where he now lies, under the chancel; and where he was taught to
pray; and where he often knelt, one would fain believe, in true
contrition; and where he learned, from some lowly parson, unknown to
fame, many of those sublime and gospel verities, which have given, even
to his poorer themes, their savor of immortality.
The avenue of limes which leads to the church-porch, is rather stiff
than otherwise. The “way to Parish Church” was probably unpaved, and
perhaps unshaded, when Will tottered over it, to be catechised; or when,
in maturer years, he sought the House of God with reverence, among the
multitude that kept holy day. The Church itself is of Anglo-Norman date,
and was originally such in its architecture, but has frequently been
altered and repaired, at various periods. It is cruciform, and would be
not unworthy of a visit for its own sake. The churchyard is full of
graves, and the Avon flows under its walls. I sat there, for nearly an
hour, quite alone, trying to grasp the full idea of the spot. A lubberly
scow came paddling along on the turbid river; and the rooks started up,
and then lighted upon the old gray tower; and some sheep came nibbling
among the graves; and finally, two or three children ran about me, and
kept me company, for awhile; but oh! how unconscious seemed all these of
the great reality of the place, and how still and solemnly the poet
slumbered on, in his sepulchre, unconscious of this prosy nineteenth
century, which thus wags on without him. I took out my tablets in a sort
of reverie; wrote down the date, and scribbled on at random, as follows:
‘Here, in the churchyard of Stratford, I am sitting on the stone-wall,
which defends it from the Avon, and at the foot of which, its fringe of
flags grows rank, amid the slime. The sun, through the half-misty
atmosphere, is falling tenderly on the limes; birds are singing; a rook
cawing; nobody is near, but the breeze whispers, socially, through the
elms overhead. How still the old spire points up to heaven! How dearly
the grass clings to the tower and belfry, growing there in every “coigne
of vantage!” And this quiet old chancel, too! Within these walls was
Shakspeare made a member of Christ, and here he waits the Judgment. Oh,
Will! how much for thee imports the Scripture, “_by thy words_ thou
shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned!”’
The old legendary sexton of Irving’s visit has passed away, and another
reigns in his stead. Availing myself of his keys, I excused him from any
further effort of his tongue, and surveyed the solemn interior in peace.
Here, too, the hand of restoration has been freshly at work, and has set
the holy house in order. The Church which enfolds the tomb of Shakspeare
is dedicated to the Holy Trinity—the God who made him, and whom he
adored. The meagre god of unbelief would never have filled such a soul
as his, or moved him to kneel down; but how often that overwhelming
Mystery of Faith must have thrilled him here, as he repeated the creed,
or chanted the _Te Deum!_ At last I stood before the famous bust, and
looked upon that sublime forehead, and those composed features, and said
to it silently those brotherly lines of Milton, which the sight brings
naturally to mind. Then I read the inscription, and spelled out, letter
by letter, the words of that imprecatory verse, in which Shakspeare’s
self is as legible as anything else. “Good friend, for Jesu’s sake,”
etc.—_Amen_, was my response. It was a moment to remember, but not to
describe.
I next tried to satisfy myself as to the sense of _Mistriss Hall’s_
epitaph, which is ambiguous; and on which the inspection of the original
throws little additional light. It tells us _first_, that she was “witty
above her sexe,” and _second_, that she was “wise to salvation,” and
then adds:
“Something of Shakspeare was in _that_—but _this_
Wholly of him, with whom she’s now in blisse.”
Now, of course, this _him_ must mean her Saviour, with whom she is in
Paradise; yet, it may mean, for all that, her father Shakspeare; and the
question is, was not the ambiguity a quaint conceit, and intended to be
a doublet? If so, as it has often struck me, whatever we may think of
its taste, it is an important testimony to the maturer character of the
poet; since its secondary meaning would be, to give it in
paraphrase—that her wit had something in it of Shakspeare, but that her
piety was wholly learned of her father, with whom she now reaps its
reward. Now if we exclude this idea, it would almost seem to force us
into the sad reverse; for certainly, as it is first read, it seems to
imply that she was not indebted to her father for any of her religion,
though she was for her wit. Of course, it may be answered, that _wisdom
unto salvation_ is so exclusively from Christ, as its meritorious cause,
that nothing else is to be taken into account, as its instrument; but is
this the sole idea of the verse? Very likely; and yet after all, I
wonder that its ambiguous character has never attracted the attention of
the many who have raked and scraped the very dust of Stratford for
something rich and strange. Certain it is, that, like many readings of
Shakspeare himself, it wants but a change of emphasis, from word to
word, to give two or three different senses, any one of which is
tolerable, although it is an intolerably bad epitaph, after all.
I believe the droppings of this Church of Stratford bedew the works of
Shakspeare, from the first sonnet to the last play, and that here he was
schooled to that strict law of his dramas, which runs through all, and
by which he always “shows virtue her own feature, and scorn her own
image,” instead of fitting the mask of propriety upon the front of
shame. More than all, it was here that he learned that reverence for the
name of Jesus, with which he so often embalms his pages, and which so
often makes them melodious to a believer’s ear and heart. How much, too,
the first and second lesson out of “the Bishop’s Bible”—how much the
Epistle and Gospel, and the Psalter, taught him, not only of sonorous
English, but of Christian doctrine and morals! I am sure these
influences may be detected in his works; and as I looked at the very
spot where his young idea was taught to shoot toward heaven, I felt that
this was the sublimest association of the place. Here once (my fancy
suggested) he may have heard in the lesson for the day—_suffer chyldren
to come unto Me_, and then, a few verses afterwards, he must have been
struck with the contrast, when the parson read on—_it is easier for a
camell to go thorow a nedle’s eye_, etc. He was now a prosperous man,
and had just purchased New-Place, and obtained a grant of Arms. His
conscience therefore pricked him with the question—Was he one of the
rich men for whom admission into heaven was to be so hard? The parson
mounted the pulpit, and quoted much learned stuff out of Sir John
Maundeville, to explain the orientalism of the lesson: and among other
things, he threw out the idea that the postern gate of an Eastern city
was so small, that it was impossible for a beast of burthen to pass
through it, and was usually called “the needle’s eye,” and hence the
force of the comparison. All this, Shakspeare, who was thinking his own
thoughts, heard only incoherently, and he got a somewhat confused idea
of the _postern_ and _needle_; but being, just then, at work on his
Richard the Second, he goes home, and puts his Sunday reverie into the
mouth of his hero, thus:—
“My thoughts of things divine are intermixed
With scruples, and do set the word itself
Against the word,
As thus—_Come little ones_; and then, again,
_It is as hard to come, as for a camel_
_To thread the postern of a needle’s eye._”
Such at least is the story, which this passage suggests to me as, very
possibly, the way in which it came to him. I often trace to a similar
source, that is, to the open Scriptures, and the vernacular services of
the Church of England, the innumerable Siloan streams which freshen and
even sanctify his verse. The great themes of redemption may be found
richly illustrated in many passages; and I think I could select from his
works enough of sacred poetry to fill a little volume, and one fit to be
kept as a companion to the Prayer-Book and the Christian Year. I cannot
credit the scandal that Shakspeare died of a debauch, nor do I believe
he was less than an ordinary Christian. While the secrets of his heart
are with his God, we may at least, in Christian charity, believe that
the friend of publicans and sinners may have seen in him a practical
dependence upon that Atonement which, by the mouth of Portia, he has
preached so well:—
—“Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy.”
As I departed, I plucked a branch of ivy from the Church wall, near the
spot where his dust awaits the resurrection. It was brought home with me
to America—the land in which he has more readers than anywhere else in
the whole world. How little he foresaw this, when in compliment to James
the First, he recorded (if the passage be his own) the prediction that
James should “make new nations;” adding—what proves rather true of
himself—
“Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,
His honour, and the greatness of his name
Shall be!”
A threatening rain prevented my walking to Charlecote, but I went away
contented. I was inclined to indulge a little in Jacques’ vein, and the
melancholy clouds began to favour us with congenial tears, as—reduced
to sober prose—I made my way in the storm, on the top of a stage-coach,
through what was once the Forest of Arden.