THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN
American interest in Stratford-upon-Avon springs out of a love for the
works of Shakespeare as profound and passionate as that of the most
sensitive and reverent of the poet's countrymen. It was the father
of American literature, Washington Irving, who in modern times made
the first pilgrimage to that holy land, and set the good example,
which since has been followed by thousands, of worship at the shrine
of Shakespeare. It was an American, the alert and expeditious P. T.
Barnum, who by suddenly proposing to buy the Shakespeare cottage
and transfer it to America startled the English into buying it for
the nation. It is, in part, to Americans that Stratford owes the
Shakespeare Memorial; for while the land on which it stands was given
by that public-spirited citizen of Stratford, Charles Edward Flower,--a
sound and reverent Shakespeare scholar, as his acting edition of the
plays may testify,--and while money to pay for the building of it was
freely contributed by wealthy residents of Warwickshire, and by men of
all ranks throughout the kingdom, the gifts and labours of Americans
were not lacking to that good cause. Edwin Booth was one of the
earliest contributors to the Memorial fund, and the names of Mr. Herman
Vezin, Mr. M. D. Conway, Mr. W. H. Reynolds, Mrs. Bateman, and Mrs.
Louise Chandler Moulton appear in the first list of its subscribers.
Miss Kate Field worked for its advancement, with remarkable energy and
practical success. Miss Mary Anderson acted for its benefit, on August
29, 1885. In the church of the Holy Trinity, where Shakespeare's dust
is buried, a beautiful stained window, illustrative, scripturally, of
that solemn epitome of human life which the poet makes in the speech
of Jaques on the seven ages of man, evinces the practical devotion of
the American pilgrim; and many a heart has been thrilled with reverent
joy to see the soft light that streams through its pictured panes fall
gently on the poet's grave.
Wherever in Stratford you come upon anything associated, even remotely,
with the name and fame of Shakespeare, there you will find the gracious
tokens of American homage. The libraries of the Birthplace and of the
Memorial alike contain gifts of American books. New Place and Anne
Hathaway's cottage are never omitted from the American traveller's
round of visitations and duty of practical tribute. The Falcon, with
its store of relics; the romantic Shakespeare Hotel, with its rambling
passages, its quaint rooms named after Shakespeare's characters, its
antique bar parlour, and the rich collection of autographs and pictures
that has been made by Mrs. Justins; the Grammar School, in which no
doubt the poet, "with shining morning face" of boyhood, was once a
pupil; John Marshall's antiquarian workshop, from which so many of
the best souvenirs of Stratford have proceeded,--a warm remembrance
of his own quaintness, kindness, and originality being perhaps the
most precious of them; the Town Hall, adorned with Gainsborough's
eloquent portrait of Garrick, to which no engraving does justice; the
Guild chapel; the Clopton bridge; Lucy's mill; the footpath across
fields and roads to Shottery, bosomed in great elms; and the ancient
picturesque building, four miles away, at Wilmcote, which was the
home of Mary Arden, Shakespeare's mother,--each and every one of
those storied places receives, in turn, the tribute of the wandering
American, and each repays him a hundredfold in charming suggestiveness
of association, in high thought, and in the lasting impulse of sweet
and soothing poetic reverie. At the Red Horse, where Mr. William
Gardner Colbourne maintains the traditions of old-fashioned English
hospitality, he finds his home; well pleased to muse and dream in
Washington Irving's parlour, while the night deepens and the clock in
the distant tower murmurs drowsily in its sleep. Those who will may
mock at his enthusiasm. He would not feel it but for the spell that
Shakespeare's genius has cast upon the world. He ought to be glad and
grateful that he can feel that spell; and, since he does feel it,
nothing could be more natural than his desire to signify that he too,
though born far away from the old home of his race, and separated from
it by three thousand miles of stormy ocean, has still his part in the
divine legacy of Shakespeare, the treasure and the glory of the English
tongue.
[Illustration: _Henry Irving. 1888._]
A noble token of this American sentiment, and a permanent object of
interest to the pilgrim in Stratford, is supplied by the Jubilee
gift of a drinking-fountain made to that city by George W. Childs of
Philadelphia. It never is a surprise to hear of some new instance
of that good man's constant activity and splendid generosity in
good works; it is only an accustomed pleasure.[45] With fine-art
testimonials in the old world as well as at home his name will always
be honourably associated. A few years ago he presented a superb
window of stained glass to Westminster Abbey, to commemorate, in
Poets' Corner, George Herbert and William Cowper. He has since given
to St. Margaret's church, Westminster, where John Skelton and Sir
James Harrington [1611-1677] were entombed, and where was buried the
headless body of Sir Walter Raleigh, a pictorial window commemorative
of John Milton. His fountain at Stratford was dedicated on October 17,
1887, with appropriate ceremonies conducted by Sir Arthur Hodgson, of
Clopton, then mayor, and amid general rejoicing. Henry Irving, the
leader of the English stage and the most illustrious of English actors
since the age of Garrick, delivered an address of singular felicity
and eloquence, and also read a poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes. The
countrymen of Mr. Childs are not less interested in this structure
than the community that it was intended to honour and benefit. They
observe with satisfaction and pride that he has made this beneficent,
beautiful, and opulent offering to a town which, for all of them, is
hallowed by exalted associations, and for many of them is endeared by
delightful memories. They sympathise also with the motive and feeling
that prompted him to offer his gift as one among many memorials of the
fiftieth year of the reign of Queen Victoria. It is not every man who
knows how to give with grace, and the good deed is "done double" that
is done at the right time. Stratford had long been in need of such a
fountain as Mr. Childs has given, and therefore it satisfies a public
want, at the same time that it serves a purpose of ornamentation and
bespeaks and strengthens a bond of international sympathy. Rother
street, in which the structure stands, is the most considerable open
place in Stratford, and is situated near the centre of the town, on
the west side. There, as also at the intersection of High and Bridge
streets, which are the principal thoroughfares of the city, the
farmers, at stated intervals, range their beasts and wagons and hold
a market. It is easy to foresee that Rother, embellished with this
monument, which combines a convenient clock tower, a place of rest
and refreshment for man, and commodious drinking-troughs for horses,
cattle, dogs, and sheep, will soon become the agricultural centre
of the region.
[Illustration: THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN]
The base of the monument is made of Peterhead granite; the
superstructure is of gray stone, from Bolton, Yorkshire. The height of
the tower is fifty feet. On the north side a stream of water, flowing
constantly from a bronze spout, falls into a polished granite basin.
On the south side a door opens into the interior. The decorations
include sculptures of the arms of Great Britain alternated with the
eagle and stripes of the American republic. In the second story of the
tower, lighted by glazed arches, is placed a clock, and on the outward
faces of the third story appear four dials. There are four turrets
surrounding a central spire, each surmounted with a gilded vane. The
inscriptions on the base were devised by Sir Arthur Hodgson, and are
these:
I
The gift of an American citizen, George W. Childs, of Philadelphia,
to the town of Shakespeare, in the Jubilee year
of Queen Victoria.
II
In her days every man shall eat, in safety
Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours.
God shall be truly known: and those about her
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.
_Henry VIII._, ACT V. SCENE 4.
III
Honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.
_Timon of Athens_, ACT I. SCENE 2.
IV
Ten thousand honours and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the
dull realities of life with innocent illusions.--_Washington Irving's
Stratford-on-Avon._
Stratford-upon-Avon, fortunate in many things, is especially fortunate
in being situated at a considerable distance from the main line of
any railway. Two railroads skirt the town, but both are branches, and
travel upon them has not yet become too frequent. Stratford, therefore,
still retains a measure of its ancient isolation, and consequently a
flavour of quaintness. Antique customs are still prevalent there, and
odd characters may still be encountered. The current of village gossip
flows with incessant vigour, and nothing happens in the place that is
not thoroughly discussed by its inhabitants. An event so important as
the establishment of the American Fountain would excite great interest
throughout Warwickshire. It would be pleasant to hear the talk of
those old cronies who drift into the bar parlour of the Red Horse on
a Saturday evening, as they comment on the liberal American who has
thus enriched and beautified their town. The Red Horse circle is but
one of many in which the name of Childs is spoken with esteem and
cherished with affection. The present writer has made many visits to
Stratford and has passed much time there, and he has observed on many
occasions the admiration and gratitude of the Warwickshire people for
the American philanthropist. In the library of Charles Edward Flower,
at Avonbank; in the opulent mansion of Edgar Flower, at the Hill; in
the lovely home of Alderman Bird; at the hospitable table of Sir
Arthur Hodgson, in Clopton; and in many other representative places
he has heard that name spoken, and always with delight and honour.
Time will only deepen and widen the loving respect with which it is
hallowed. In England, more than anywhere else on earth, the record of
good deeds is made permanent, not alone with imperishable symbols, but
in the hearts of the people. The inhabitants of Warwickshire, guarding
and maintaining their Stratford Fountain, will not forget by whom it
was given. Wherever you go, in the British islands, you find memorials
of the past and of individuals who have done good deeds in their time,
and you also find that those memorials are respected and preserved.
Warwickshire abounds with them. Many such emblems might be indicated.
Each one of them takes its place in the regard and gradually becomes
entwined with the experience of the whole community. So it will be
with the Childs Fountain at Stratford. The children trooping home from
school will drink of it and sport in its shadow, and, reading upon
its base the name of its founder, will think with pleasure of a good
man's gift. It stands in the track of travel between Banbury, Shipston,
Stratford, and Birmingham, and many weary men and horses will pause
beside it every day, for a moment of refreshment and rest. On festival
days it will be hung with garlands, while around it the air is glad
with music. And often in the long, sweet gloaming of the summertimes to
come the rower on the limpid Avon, that murmurs by the ancient town of
Shakespeare, will pause with suspended oar to hear its silver chimes.
If the founder of that fountain had been capable of a selfish thought
he could have taken no way better or more certain than this for the
perpetuation of his name in the affectionate esteem of one of the
loveliest places and one of the most sedate communities in the world.
[Illustration: _Mary Arden's Cottage._]
Autumn in England--and all the country ways of lovely Warwickshire are
strewn with fallen leaves. But the cool winds are sweet and bracing,
the dark waters of the Avon, shimmering in mellow sunlight and frequent
shadow, flow softly past the hallowed church, and the reaped and
gleaned and empty meadows invite to many a healthful ramble, far and
wide over the country of Shakespeare. It is a good time to be there.
Now will the robust pedestrian make his jaunt to Charlecote Park and
Hampton Lucy, to Stoneleigh Abbey, to Warwick and Kenilworth, to Guy's
Cliff, with its weird avenue of semi-blasted trees, to the Blacklow
Hill,--where sometimes at still midnight the shuddering peasant hears
the ghostly funeral bell of Sir Piers Gaveston sounding ruefully from
out the black and gloomy woods,--and to many another historic haunt and
high poetic shrine. All the country-side is full of storied resorts and
cosey nooks and comfortable inns. But neither now nor hereafter will it
be otherwise than grateful and touching to such an explorer of haunted
Warwickshire to see, among the emblems of poetry and romance which are
its chief glory, this new token of American sentiment and friendship,
the Fountain of Stratford.