STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.
On the skirts of the county of Warwick (saith a modern author), situated
on the low meadowy banks of a river, there is a little quiet country
town, boasting nothing to attract the attention of the traveller but a
fine church and one or two antique buildings with elaborately carved
fronts of wood or stone, in the peaceful streets. There would seem to be
little traffic in that place, and the passing traveller, ignorant of the
locality, would scarcely cast a second look around. But whisper its name
into his ear, and, hand in hand with his ignorance, his apathy will
straightway depart. He will stop his horse; he will descend from the
saddle; he will explore those quiet streets, he will enter more than one
of the houses in that little town; he will visit that old church, he
will pause reverentially before its monuments; he will carry away with
him some notes--perhaps some sketches; and remember what he saw and what
he felt that day to the very close of his life. Indeed you will seldom
fail to see, even in that quiet little town, small groups of people on
whose faces and in whose demeanour you will recognize the stranger
stamp. There is something to see in those unfrequented streets; and they
have come a long way to see it. What wonder! The town is
Stratford-upon-Avon.
Such is indeed Stratford-upon-Avon at the present time. But in the
sixteenth century it presented a somewhat different aspect.
The different towns in England, at this latter period, were just
beginning to emerge from their state of primitive rudeness and
irregularity, and the houses to be distinguished for a style of
architectural beauty and comfort as dwellings, which has not since been
improved or exceeded.
The various contentions and intestine jars which had, almost up to the
reign of Elizabeth, drained the population, and kept men from all
peaceful occupations and improvements, and in consequence of which the
squalor of their dwellings and tenements were but one degree improved
from the rudeness of the Norman period, was now to give place to a style
which, if but one tenement remain to us in a town of the present age, we
look at it with delight and admiration. Stratford-upon-Avon then, in the
year 1584, might be said to partake largely of both these styles. In
some parts were to be seen those irregular ill-built wooden tenements,
little removed from the hut of the Norman citizen. These standing apart,
and without regard to streets, formed the abode of the poorer sort of
inhabitants, and chiefly constituted the suburbs; whilst several regular
streets were to be found composed of handsome, strong-built,
heavily-timbered, and substantial dwellings, having their shops
encroaching into the streets; their beetling storeys above; their long
passages running backwards, with ample yards and gardens in rear; and
their low-roofed wide-chimneyed, secluded, and comfortable rooms,
secured by massive iron-studded doors, and accommodated with heavy
cumbrous articles of furniture.
Here and there too, in the midst, were to be seen the mouldering remains
of some dark monastic building of a former day. The walls of edifices,
built in the dark ages of monkish intolerance, whose grated windows and
low-arched doors told of the Saxon and the Dane, when, save the
splendour of religious architecture, there was nothing between the hut
and the castle.
Nothing could be more rural and picturesque than Stratford-upon-Avon on
a bright summer's day. Its streets, as we have before partially
described, and (as was mostly the case in unwalled towns at this period)
were, except in the very centre of the town, composed of houses
detached at irregular intervals, many of the edifices being partially
screened by the luxuriant trees which shadowed their fronts, and grew in
the gardens in rear: added to this, in the suburban thoroughfares of
this town, it was not uncommon to find a clump of tall elms or oaks
growing in the very centre of the road, beneath whose boughs the rude
bench, the horse-trough, and the creaking sign proclaimed the immediate
vicinity of the smaller hostel.
If the traveller looked from the town, he beheld the high road he was to
traverse on leaving it, o'ercanopied by the forest scene without, whilst
on entering the suburbs, the sloping roof, gable ends, and heavy
chimneys were only here and there to be caught sight of amongst the
living verdure in which they were embosomed.
Besides this, as he proceeded, the picture was added to by the various
signs of the several trades, which proclaimed the occupation of the
indwellers, and before many of the houses were placed long benches on
which, in fine weather, the townsfolk were to be found seated,
conversing cozily together in their quaint-cut doublets and
steeple-crowned hats. Large tubs of water also, by order of the chief
magistrate, were placed beside each dwelling, as a precautionary
preventative against the spread of fire amongst these stout-timbered
edifices. The highways, however, even in the outskirts of the town, were
by no means so well cared for as in our own times, and in foul weather,
in place of a well-paved or Macadamized thoroughfare, the road was
knee-deep in mud, and cut up fearfully with cart wheels and other
traffic of the time.
In what would now be called a small and somewhat mean-looking dwelling,
but which in the reign of Elizabeth constituted the habitation of a good
substantial citizen, resided John Shakespeare, a dealer in wool in
Stratford-upon-Avon. The house itself had nothing in its outward
appearance to recommend it, except the strength of its build and the
stoutness of its timbers.
It was neither "a goodly dwelling or a rich." Its rooms were both
stinted to space and somewhat low in roof. But little did its inmates
suspect that from the mere legend of one of its indwellers having first
drawn breath beneath its roof, that house would create more interest in
the world than the most magnificent palace the world contained, and that
in after-ages the four corners of the earth would send forth votaries to
see, to worship, and to offer adoration at its shrine. And still less
did its occupants imagine that in the person of one of their own
children they possessed a treasure, whose very name, unthought of and
slightly regarded as he then was, would prove dearer than Pluto's mine,
more rich than gold.
Let us for a moment take a glance at the interior of this hallowed
residence, and view it at the precise period of time to which the minds
of those who now visit it are wont to revert; and when he who was in
after-times to throw so great an interest over every cupboard, corner,
and cranny of its stout-timbered walls, was in life, and dwelling idly
in its apartments.
In an inner apartment of the ground-floor was seated on a high-backed
oaken chair, a female of some thirty years of age. If the reader has
ever bestowed his attention upon the portrait Rubens has left us of his
first wife, it will save much trouble in the description, since both in
feature and figure this very handsome middle-aged female was the
counterpart presentment of that portrait.
Opposite to her, and apparently engaged with books and accounts
pertaining to his business, pen in hand, and inditing what, in the
present day, would be called a cramped piece of penmanship, sits a very
comely and respectable-looking man. Nay, if we look closely at him we
shall pronounce him to be a splendid specimen of an Englishman, both in
countenance and figure. His face is exceedingly handsome, the complexion
of a rich brown, the features high and aquiline, hair of a dark auburn,
slightly tinged with grey, whilst a close-clipped curly beard worn round
the chin, and a thick moustachio on the upper lip, complete the picture
of one of those true-born English yeomen whose ancestors drew their
arrows to the ear in the fields of Cressey, Poietiers, and Agincourt. If
our readers then look upon this pair they will behold the father and
mother of England's pride and glory, John and Joan Shakespeare.
In the female there is a dignity of look and manner which seems somewhat
out of keeping with so lowly a home as the one we find her in. She looks
one whose presence would have better suited the hall than the cottage.
One come of gentle blood, and born to fortune instead of being the wife
of a tradesman in a country town, handsome and genteel-looking as nature
hath made that husband.--Such is in truth the case, as John Shakespeare
married one of the daughters and heirs of Arden of Wellingcote, in the
county of Warwick.
This pair, however, were not the only occupants of the small inner
apartment in which we have found them, as some half-a-dozen curly-headed
varlets, male and female, of various ages, from three to ten, were
sitting and sprawling about the floor, clambering upon chairs,
exercising their lungs in concert, and ever and anon calling forth a
short reproof or a caress from their handsome parents.
After a while, the wool-comber shuts up his books, places his pen in the
inkstand, and folding his arms, remains wrapt in deep meditation.
There is something of care and anxiety in his countenance. His thoughts
and cogitations, as he occasionally glances upon his good-looking
spouse, and then watches the young fry upon the floor, become more
troubled; and, apparently to hide the growing heaviness of his brow, he
rises, walks into the shop in front, reaches down his steeple-crowned
hat, and looks forth into the street,--the little curly brood breaking
cover as he opens the door, and bounding joyously into the sunshine in
the streets.
As they do so, they are met, caught up, and kissed, (at least the
younger ones,) by their elder brother, just now returning to his home.
"Ah, Will, good Will," cries one, "where have you been tarrying so
long?" "Naughty truant Willy," cries another, "you've been rambling over
to Warwick with Dick, the tanner's wild son, duck-hunting, I dare be
sworn." "Nay," cries a third, "I know he has been otter-hunting all
night in the river; see his staff is red with blood. Yon have brought us
some skins, good William, hast thou not?"
"Nay, in good sooth, you varlets," said the elder brother, entering the
door with the whole fry clinging round him, "I have neither wild fowl
from the marshes, nor otters from the river; for none have I been in
search of. I come home empty-handed this afternoon, for which you must
forgive me."
"And where, then, hast thou been, William?" said his father, somewhat
gravely. "This idle wandering life of thine will, I fear me, lead to
nothing. Master Pouncet Grasp has fairly given me warning that he will
have no more to do with thee. He complains that you keep no regular
hours; you heed no orders or directions he gives; that you set him at
naught, in sooth, and make his other lads more idle than yourself. Nay,
he says you spoil his parchments, spill his ink in waste, and that, in
truth, he must either be ruined or be rid of thee."
"Out upon the miserable scrivener," returned William, laughing. "I did
but pen a stanza in place of drawing a lease, and lo! he has never
forgotten it. But, in good sooth, dear father," continued the youth, "I
fear me I shall never thrive in the office of Pouncet Grasp. I find the
dry work of a copying-clerk but an idle waste of the life Heaven hath
blessed me with. I was not formed to draw leases, wills, and other
tenures and tricks of lawcraft.
"Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch,
Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth,
Between two girls, which hath the merrier eye--
I have, perchance, some shallow spirit of judgment;
But in the nice sharp quillets of the law,
Good faith, I am no wiser than a jackdaw."
"Thou canst rhapsodize at a good rate, my son," said the father, "that I
well know. But in good truth thou must turn over a new leaf with Lawyer
Grasp, or he will turn thee off, William!"
"Nay," urged the youth, "since we have entered upon this matter, I must
tell thee, father, that never since the pupil age of Adam was there poor
wight more unfitted for a lawyer than myself; my pen runs riot when I
put it upon parchment; I cannot indite the undoing of the widow and the
orphan, even when the _foul_ copy lies before my nose. I turn a writ
into a love-song, and when I should copy out an ejectment, lo! I find I
have penned the words of a madrigal."
"The more the pity, William," said the father, "for to speak sooth to
thee, I find myself by no means in so thriving a condition as I could
wish. There be a many of us now in family, great and small. Business
slackens with me, and in good sooth, lad, an I do not better in the
next three months than I have done the last, I may e'en close my books,
shut the house, and stick up bills to let the premises. Ruin, William,
stares me in the face, if matters mend not anon. A bad time such for you
to be thinking of changing from the vocation I have placed you in."
"Neither would I think of changing, father," returned the son, "did I
think that, by remaining _in_ the law, I could help you or advance
myself. But believe me, so opposite is the dull routine of the desk, so
abhorrent to my soul is the craft of a lawyer, that rather than follow
such a calling I would take the sword my grandsire won at Bosworth, and
seek a livelihood in any place where men cut throats in the way of
profession. Those were sad times, father, but they were stirring times,
those days of York and Lancaster, when--
"Trenching war channell'd our fields,
And bruised our flowrets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces."
As the youth uttered this with something of a theatrical air, and giving
the words great force by his utterance, his father looked at him with
considerable curiosity. "Now, by my halidame," he said, "I cannot half
fathom thee, William. Truly thou art a riddle to make out. Seeming fit
for nothing, and yet good at all things. I would I knew, in good sooth,
what to put thee to."
The lad smiled. "Nay," he said, "I must not be undutiful towards one so
good. I will then continue to try and please this godless lawyer till
something better turns up. And now I must tell thee I have made a friend
of one well known to thee, and who is willing to serve us in requital
for some little service he hath received at my hands."
"Of whom dost thou speak, William?" inquired the father.
"Of Sir Hugh Clopton," returned the youth.
"Nay, and thou hast made friends of Sir Hugh and his family," said John
Shakespeare, "thou hast done thyself good service, and, mayhap, he may
advance thee in life: though what he will find thee fit for, William, I
wot not."
"Truly, father," said William, "I confess myself but a tattered
prodigal, only fitted to eat draff and husks. Nevertheless, an thou wilt
but admit me, I would fain join these hungry varlets at their evening
meal, and beg a blessing of my honoured mother, whose sweet face I have
scarce looked at these two days past."
"Well, come thy ways in, thou scoffer," said John Shakespeare,
good-naturedly. "I defy the evil one to be angry with such a madcap as
thou art."
So saying, Master John Shakespeare turned and entered the house, his
eldest son following with all his little brothers and sisters clinging
to him--one upon his back, another in his arms, and the remainder
pulling at the skirts of his coarse gray doublet.
To picture the private hours of the great is a difficult, as well as a
thankless, task we opine, since oft-times more is expected than is in
reality to be found; and our readers will scarce be contented to find
the youthful Shakespeare--in all the freedom, amiability, and kindness
of his disposition--the great, the illustrious, the unmatchable--the
mere playmate of his little brothers and sisters, and, whilst sitting
beneath the huge chimney in that small dark room, as he watches the
preparation for the evening meal, engaged in a joyous game of romps.
Yet such is the case. The gentle William, despite the greatness of his
spirit and the waywardness of his disposition, which seems inclined to
settle to nothing, is the darling of that home circle, the joy of his
brothers and sisters, and, when at home, entering into all their little
amusements and pastimes with heart and hand,--nay, their nurse when
sick, and even assisting his mother oft-times in her little attentions
towards them,--ere he himself, in all "the unyoked humour of his
idleness," sallies out to join his youthful associates of the town.
Our readers will, therefore, not be surprised to find that great mind,
which in a single line could send a thrill through the soul of his
readers, intent upon an infantine game in the "ingle neuk."
The pecuniary difficulties John Shakespeare had hinted at to his son
were consequent upon his having maintained a somewhat "more swelling
port than his faint means would grant continuance." No man in Stratford
was better thought of or more respected than neighbour Shakespeare.
There was something about him so well bred and so superior to his
station in life, that he bore with him a degree of influence seldom
granted except to rank and fortune.
The chief magistrate of the body corporate of Stratford was in the early
charters called the high bailiff. This office Master John Shakespeare
had filled some few years previous to the date of our story, and the
execution of such office had led him into expenses which he had since in
vain tried to abridge. "To some men, their virtues stand them but as
enemies," and thus the good and companionable qualities of Master
Shakespeare, notwithstanding his domestic habits, were so greatly
esteemed that his hospitality was taxed accordingly, and his hearth
seldom unhonoured by guests after business hours. Nay, at no hour was
the little back parlour of his house entirely free from the gossiping
neighbour who came down to talk over the politics of the town, or
discuss the latest floating rumour of the stirring events of Elizabeth's
reign.
Newspaper intelligence, we have said, there was none at this period,
and, in the absence of such a vehicle for information, men's mouths were
filled with any stirring tidings, and they donned their castors and
hurried about in a country town, stuffing each other's ears with false
reports, and frightening the place from its propriety when any event of
particular import happened.
"From Rumour's tongues
They brought smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs."
"Heard ye the news, neighbour Shakespeare?" said Master Doubletongue the
mercer, entering the small parlour we have attempted to describe, and
joining the family circle. "Heard ye the news to-night?"
"Good or bad be it?" said John Shakespeare smiling, "it would have been
curious news an it had travelled hither before you brought it, neighbour
Doubletongue. Come, sit, man, sit, fill your cup and give us your news.
What! hath Dame Illwill been brought to bed of twins, or how goes the
story?"
"Nay, neighbour," returned Doubletongue, who was one of the veriest
scandal-mongers in Stratford, "Dame Illwill hath not produced twins,
neither do I think she will produce the half of twins. By the same
token, I heard the Leech say, 'twas after all but a dropsy that had
caused all this scandal in her disfavour. But body o'me, heard ye not
the news just now brought to town?"
"That Dame Illwill's affair is likely to end in a bottle of smoke? why,
man, thou hast just told us as much."
"Ah," said Doubletongue, taking off his cap like one who found he had in
him wherewithal to interest his auditor, "then I _see_ you have not
heard the news. Ergo, the news is mine to give."
"Then I take it, neighbour," said John Shakespeare, "there are but two
ways, either to give or to retain it. Come, another cup will perhaps
help its deliverance."
"Nay," said Doubletongue, who but half relished the lack of excitement
his intended communication seemed to make, "you will scarce keep the
native colour in your cheek, neighbour, when I do tell ye what's afloat
to-night. The affair, then, gossips, is thus----"
"Whose affair?" interrupted John Shakespeare, "not the one you just now
spoke of?"
"Did I hint anything?" inquired Doubletongue.
"About a certain female you did," said John Shakespeare.
"Of illustrious rank?" said Doubletongue. "Why, then you _have_ heard?"
"We have heard what you have just told us," said John Shakespeare.
"The news?"
"The news."
"What! of Queen Elizabeth?"
"Nay, Heaven forbid we should sit to hear such words uttered about our
gracious Queen," said John Shakespeare with much solemnity. "'Tis even
dangerous to breathe such a scandal in such a quarter."
"Then of whom were we speaking?" said Doubletongue. "I gave no news. I
have none to give out concerning our gracious----"
"Of Dame Illwill, I thought you spoke?" said John Shakespeare.
"Dame Illwill," said Doubletongue, contemptuously, "who cares about Dame
Illwill? and who, think ye, neighbour, would trouble themselves to stab
her?"
"Stab her!" said John Shakespeare, "who talked of stabbing?"
"I do," said Doubletongue; "its my own news, man. It's what I am come to
propound, to expound, and to promulgate. Only you will not bear with me.
The Queen is stabbed, killed, and murdered; our good and gracious Queen
hath been murdered, I say; now, there is my news."
"Heaven forbid!" said John Shakespeare, starting to his feet. "That
would bode ill luck to England at this moment. Heard you this report,
Master Cramboy?" he continued, addressing another of the townsmen who
entered at the moment.
"Which report, and whence derived, neighbour?" said Cramboy (who was
master of the free-school at Stratford); "for there be many rumours just
now come into town; the difficulty is to get the true one."
"That relating to the death of the Queen by the hand of an assassin,"
returned John Shakespeare, "and just now given us by neighbour
Doubletongue here."
"Where gott'st thou _that_ news, goodman Doubletongue?" said the
schoolmaster, with considerable asperity in his manner, "and how came
you to take upon yourself to promulgate, disseminate, and divulge such a
fable?"
"Nay," said Doubletongue, who stood somewhat in awe of the pedant, "I
know no harm in relating what I have just heard from neighbour Suddle of
our town."
"Out upon the barbarmonger," said Cramboy, "He is ever inventing one lie
or other; I advise thee to shut thy ears against all his monstrous
conceptions, and thy door against his visits. Know'st thou not, simple
mercer as thou art, that to imagine the Queen's death is treasonable as
to attempt _her life_. Ergo, thou hast committed, or rather aided in
spreading the contagion of matter containing treason, and art _particeps
criminis_ with that lying knave Suddle, who goeth about seeking whom he
may deceive."
"Nay," said Doubletongue, "if such be the case, I will myself go about
to retrace my steps, and gainsay all I have said."
"'Twere best you did so," said Cramboy, "with the addition, Master
Doubletongue, that for the future the good folks are never to believe
any rumours either you or Suddle may bring them. And harkee, neighbour,
when you are asked the real state of the case, you can tell your friends
that it is not the Queen who has been stabbed, but the Prince of Orange.
For that is the actual verity."
"Body o'me, but that is it, then, is it?" said Doubletongue: "well then,
there has been a royal personage murdered, after all. Grant that, my
veracity; grant that, and God be praised, therefore, I am not then
altogether a liar. But stay, an I obey your first injunctions, good
Master Cramboy, who will believe this second report at my hands? I shall
scarce be credited, methinks."
"So much the better, neighbour," said Cramboy; "the less men credit in
these days of trouble, always excepting holy writ, and the more they
keep to their own affairs, the better for them. And therefore go _not_
about _at all_; but sit ye down and fill your tankard, whilst I expound
what really hath happened."
"One way or other, we shall at last learn the rights of this matter,"
said John Shakespeare, laughing; "you said but now, Master Cramboy, that
the Prince of Orange hath been murdered?"
"At Delft, by the hands of a misguided fanatic, such is the awful story,
John Shakespeare. For what saith the book? 'Villany that is vigilant
will be an overmatch for virtue, if she slumbereth.' One Balthazar
Gerard, a Burgundian, it seems has long entertained this design against
the Prince of Orange, and, in order to destroy that famous restorer of
religious liberty, has, at the same time, sacrificed his own life. On my
word," continued the pedant, "these Jesuits are fearful fellows, and
will murder us all in the end. Nay, it is affirmed the Spanish arms are
making rapid progress in the Netherlands, and that Antwerp is ta'en.
Truly, the Prince of Parma carries all before him in those parts. Nay,
'tis further said the States are reduced to such extremity, that they
have sent an ambassador to London to offer to acknowledge our blessed
Queen for their sovereign, providing always she will grant them her
protection and assistance."
"And there it is," said Master Doubletongue, "there hath not been so
bloody a wild beast seen ravening, burning, and destroying us poor
Protestants, as that terrible Spaniard Philip since the world began.
Heaven keep us from his hot pincers, his thumb-screws, his iron boots,
his hostile intrigues, and cruel enterprises!"
"Amen, neighbour, say I," returned Master Cramboy, "though I marvel much
you will allow your tongue so much liberty, neighbour, seeing that, as I
firmly believe, Philip of Spain hath a paid spy and intelligencer in
every town of the kingdom. Nay, his wicked designs are said to be fully
directed against England at this moment."
"I trust no paid spy is to be found within my house, neighbour Cramboy,"
said John Shakespeare, laughing, "so that my worthy friend Doubletongue
is quite at liberty to rail upon the Spaniard to his heart's content
here."
"I meant nothing but in the way of caution to our good neighbour," said
the pedant, "and whose tongue would be much the better for an occasional
bridle, whilst the unrighteous are in sight. By the same token there are
at this moment some half-dozen strangers staying at the hostel of the
Checquers, whom none of us can fathom. Master Mumble, the headborough,
talks of paying them a visit, and putting them to their purgation.
Truly, we are in a dangerous condition, neighbour, and it behoves every
one to look well to the main chance."
"I think with you," said John Shakespeare, "that our prospects seem not
so fair as hitherto they have seemed. There is no question but that
Philip of Spain, with all the power of his united empire, will fall upon
England anon. His sole aim is the entire subjection of the Protestants.
But come, since your news hath driven off my wife and all her children,
let us even walk down to the Falcon and discuss these matters further.
'Tis now eight o'clock, and I dare be sworn the Dolphin parlour is well
filled with guests. Heaven keep our blessed Queen in its own safety, for
an these paid spies and jesuitical villains should hit her life, I fear
me we shall be devoured by the wolf of Spain."
So saying, Master Shakespeare rose, and accompanied by his son and two
fellow-townsmen, took their hats and sallied forth.
During the foregoing discussion so many bumpers had been tossed off by
the two newsmongers, that Master Doubletongue was becoming a trifle
double-sighted, whilst the pedant, who was sufficiently domineering over
his neighbours on most occasions, was now rendered doubly important and
overbearing.
"Methinks, Will," whispered the elder Shakespeare to his son, "you had
better give Master Doubletongue the aid of your guidance, lest he
measure his length in the gutter. He seems somewhat flustered, and
inclined to quarrel with the road for not being of sufficient width."
"Thank ye, good William, thank ye," said the mercer, as he availed
himself of the youth's assistance, "the causeway seems progressive
to-night, the stones wherewith it is paved, ever and anon, do rise up to
salute my nostrils, and there they come again."
"Now that's what I call a circumstance," said Cramboy, "neighbour
Doubletongue has been fuddled every night before curfew, for the last
twenty years of his life, and has not yet learnt to carry his liquor
seemly. An the watch pass us they will be scandalized at his condition,
and take us all up for being drunk at unseasonable hours in the streets.
I pr'ythee, good William, convey him to his own door, and deposit him in
safety there."