A REAL ENTHUSIAST.
I AM afraid it is rather taken for granted by parents in general,
as regards any behaviour they may adopt towards their offspring,
that religion is always upon their own side. And yet there is a very
noteworthy text about ‘provoking our children to wrath,’ which it is a
mistake to ignore. Wise and reverend signors may well have learnt by
experience to take trifling annoyances with equanimity; but the _amour
propre_ of the young is a tender shoot, and very sensitive to rough
handling.
The most sensitive plant of all is the lad with a turn for literature;
and, as a rule, parents have the least patience with him. When the turn
is not a mere taste, but a natural gift, this does not much matter;
no true flame was ever put out by the breath of contempt: but when
it halts midway the youth has a bad time of it. He shivers at every
sneer, without the means of giving it the lie. ‘Like a dart it strikes
to his liver,’ because his armour, unlike that of true genius, is not
arrow-proof. He knows that he is not the fool that his folk take him
for, but he has an uneasy consciousness that they are partly right;
that his powers are not equal to his pretensions. This was the case
with William Henry Erin.
[Illustration]
He had a turn for literature, and, if an uncommon facility for writing
indifferent verses is any proof of it, even for poetry; and he found
nobody to admit it, not even Margaret. ‘It is very good, Willie, for a
first attempt,’ was the fatal eulogium she once passed upon the most
cherished of his poetical productions; and his father, as we have
seen, made no scruple of ridiculing his literary efforts. If the boy’s
predilection for such matters had interfered with his professional
duties, it might have been excusable enough; but the conveyancers to
whom William Henry was articled were quite satisfied with him. He
was very careful and diligent, and though he had come to years of
indiscretion, far from dissipated. If he loitered on his way to his
employers’ chambers in the New Inn, it was to turn over the leaves of
some old poem on a book-stall, rather than to gaze on the young woman
who might be behind it. Still, not being perfection, it was natural
that he should feel resentment at his father’s harshness, and at the
slights to which his muse was exposed at his unsympathising hands.
He had never had any one to sympathise with his poetical aspirations
except his friend Reginald Talbot, a fellow-clerk of his own age, who
was also devoted to the Muses; and Talbot’s praise had its drawbacks.
First, he did not think it worth much; and secondly, it could not be
obtained without reciprocity; and it went against William Henry’s
conscience to praise Talbot’s poems.
‘Well,’ thought the young man, as he looked out of his attic window,
which commanded a distant view of Stratford Church, ‘there lies a man
who was as little appreciated at my age as I am; and yet he made some
noise in the world. He, too, some say, was a scrivener’s clerk. He,
too, was called Will—which is at least an interesting coincidence.
He, too, fell in love at my age.’ Here his reflections ended with a
sigh, for the parallel extended no further. Shakespeare had not only
wooed, but—with a little too much ease, indeed—had won; whereas
Margaret Slade was far out of his reach. He had a shrewd suspicion that
Mr. Erin intended her to marry Dennis, and had brought him down with
him to Stratford ‘to throw the young people together,’ as he would
doubtless express it. Young people, indeed! why, Frank Dennis was old
enough—well, scarcely, to be her father, unless he had been unusually
precocious, but certainly to know better. ‘Crabbed age’—the man was
thirty if he was a day—‘and youth cannot live together.’ It was a most
monstrous proposition! On the other hand, what could he, poor William
Henry, do? If he could persuade Maggie to run away with him to-morrow,
they must literally run, for he had hardly money enough, after that
Bristol trip, to pay the first pike out of Stratford, and far less a
post-chaise.
As he thought of his unacknowledged merits, and of the many obstacles
to his union, he grew bitter against the whole scheme of creation. If
poetic impulse could have projected him fifty years forward, he would
doubtless have exclaimed, with the bard of Bon Gaultier,—
Cussed be the clerk and the parson,
Cussed be the whole concern!
but not having that vent for his feelings, he only loosened his
neckcloth a bit and looked moody. Poor fellow! he had but two wishes
in the world—to marry Margaret, and to get into print; and both these
desires, just because he had no money, were denied him.
At that very time, Margaret at her window was thinking of him. She was
not—she was certain she was not, the idea was quite ridiculous—in
love with him; but, thanks to his father’s conduct, she felt that pity
for him which is akin to love. And he was certainly very handsome,
and very fond of her. He had been foolish to come down to Stratford
when it was clear her uncle didn’t want him; but it was ‘very nice
of him,’ too, and since he was there and upon his holiday—his one
holiday in the year, poor fellow—it was cruel to snub him! Frank
Dennis didn’t snub him, that she would say for Frank: he was a kind,
honest fellow, though rather old-fashioned, and just a trifle heavy in
hand. She wished William Henry would talk like him when addressing his
father; though when addressing _her_, she confessed to herself that she
preferred William Henry’s way. It was really distressing to see her
uncle and his son together; they mixed no better than oil and vinegar.
She was well pleased to remember that Mr. Jervis, the Stratford poet,
was coming that morning to breakfast with them, since his presence
would prevent anything unseemly; moreover, he would probably take her
uncle and Frank Dennis away with him to investigate antiquities, which
would leave William Henry and herself to themselves.
John Jervis was but a carpenter in a small way of business, but he was
much respected in the town, and had made himself a name beyond it,
on account of the interest he took in all Shakespearean matters. The
gentry in the neighbourhood spoke of him as ‘a civil and inoffensive
creature,’ but he was ‘corresponded with’ by men of letters and
learning in London. His position would have been better than it was
had he not been so foolish as to publish a volume of poems—to be paid
by subscription. This had subjected him to something much worse than
criticism—to patronage. Every one who had advanced a few shillings
for the appearance of that unfortunate volume became in a sense his
master, and some of them exacted interest for their investment in
advice, remonstrance, and dictation. It was a foolish thing of John
Jervis to set up his trade—not carpentering, but the other—in
Stratford-on-Avon. In Paisley there are, I have heard say, at this
present moment fifty poets, all complaining that the world which will
give them a monument after their death, in the meantime permits them to
starve; but Paisley is a place which is scarcely poetic to begin with,
whereas to be a local poet in Stratford was like setting up a shed for
small coal in Newcastle. The good man had become quite aware of this by
this time; he was very dissatisfied with his published productions (it
is a common case; what we have in our desk seems as superior to what
lies on our table as that which moves in our brain is to what lies in
our desk). He would have given as much to suppress his little volume
as William Henry would have given to get _his_ own broadcast over an
admiring land. And yet there was no question of comparison between them
as respected merit. John Jervis was, within certain narrow limits,
a true poet: what he saw he noted, what he noted he felt; so far he
followed his great master. He even emitted a modest light of his own,
which was not reflected: he was not a star, but he was a glow-worm.
Most of us are but worms without the glow.
Every one who came to Stratford at that time for Shakespeare’s
sake—and no one came for any other reason—was recommended to apply to
John Jervis for information. On receiving any summons of this nature
he put aside his carpenter’s tools, took off his apron, and donned his
Sabbath garb. A carpenter in his Sunday clothes in these days is a sad
sight; he represents one branch of his business only, that of the
undertaker: but in the times of which we write it was not so. Wigs were
not yet gone out of fashion in Warwickshire, but John Jervis could not
afford what was called the ‘Citizen’s Sunday Buckle’ or ‘Bob Major,’
because it had three tiers of curls. He had too much good taste to
use the ‘Minor Bob’ or Hair Cap, short in the neck to show the stock
buckle, and stroked away from the face so as to seem (like Tristram
Shandy) as though the wearer had been skating against the wind. He
wore his own grey hair and a modest grey suit, in which, however, none
but a flippant young fellow like Master William Henry Erin could have
likened him to a master baker. His face was homely but pleasant, and
had a certain dignity; his manner retiring but not reticent. It was his
business to answer questions, but he did not volunteer information. He
had, indeed, a secret contempt for the majority of his clients; they
had more appetite for the Shakespearean husks, the few dry details
that could be picked up concerning their Idol, than for the corn—what
manner of man he had been in spirit, or how the scenery about his
home had affected his writings. Jervis found Mr. Erin to be no better
than his other visitors: hungry for facts, greedy for particulars, and
combative. He talked of the Confession of Faith found in the roof of
the house in Henley Street, and rubbed his hands, notwithstanding that
his enemy had since retracted his belief in it, over Malone’s credulity.
‘“An unworthy member of the Holy Catholic religion,” indeed! It is
monstrous, incredible.’
‘That phrase had reference to the father, however,’ observed Jervis.
‘True, but that was the art of the forger, himself of the old faith, no
doubt. He wished to make our Shakespeare a born Papist. Now, that he
was a good Protestant is indubitable. “I’d beat him like a dog,” says
Sir Andrew. “What! for being a Puritan?” returns Sir Toby. What irony!
You are of my opinion, I hope, Mr. Jervis?’
‘I have scarcely formed an opinion upon the matter,’ was the modest
reply. ‘Shakespeare was Catholic in one sense, but I agree with you
that he was not one to be much comforted by the “holy sacrifice of the
mass,” as the so-called Confession put it.’
‘I should think not, indeed. He was not partial to priests. “When thou
liest _howling_,”’ quoted Mr. Erin triumphantly.
‘Still, being a stage-player, I doubt if he was partial to the
Puritans. No; such things moved him neither way; religious
controversies he looked upon as on other quarrels, as “valour
misbegot.” If he could not see into the future, he saw five hundred
years ahead of his contemporaries, who were burning Francis Kett for
heresy at Norwich.’
Mr. Erin was not certain whether Kett was a Protestant or a Catholic
(on which depended his view of the circumstance), so he only shook his
head.
‘You mean, Mr. Jervis,’ said Margaret timidly, ‘that in Shakespeare’s
eyes there were no heretics?’
The man in grey looked at his gentle inquirer and bowed his head
assentingly. ‘None, as I think, young lady, save those who disbelieved
in good.’
‘That is not established,’ said Mr. Erin argumentatively.
‘I am afraid your uncle thinks _me_ a heretic,’ said Mr. Jervis,
smiling. Then, perceiving that Margaret looked interested, he told her
of the marvellous boy—name unknown, but whose fame still survived—who
had been Shakespeare’s contemporary at Stratford. How, so the legend
ran, he had been thought his equal in genius, and his future greatness
been prophesied with the same confidence, but who had died in youth, a
mute, inglorious Shakespeare.
‘I often picture to myself,’ said the old man dreamily, ‘the friendship
of those two boys.’
‘Do you think they went out poaching together?’ inquired William Henry
demurely. He was not without humour, and was also perhaps a little
jealous of the attention Margaret paid their visitor.
‘Poaching!’ exclaimed Mr. Erin angrily, ‘how gross and contemptible are
your ideas, sir!’
‘Still,’ interposed Dennis, his sense of justice aiding his wish
to stand between Mr. Erin’s wrath and its object—Margaret’s
cousin—‘Shakespeare did transgress in that way. It is not likely that
he strained at a hare if he swallowed a deer.’
‘No doubt he poached,’ admitted Jervis gravely. ‘He was very human,
and did all things that became a boy. But I was thinking rather of
the companionship of the two boys than their pursuits. Their talk was
not of hares nor of rabbits. How one would like to know their boyish
confidences! what were their ambitions, their aspirations, their views
of life; which one was about to leave, and in which the other was to
fill so large a space in the thoughts of man—for ever. It was in this
little town they lived and talked together; learnt their lessons from
one book perhaps, in yonder school, each without a thought of the
other’s immortality, albeit of such different kinds.’
The solemnity of the speaker’s manner, and the genuineness of feeling
which his tone displayed, had no little effect upon his audience, but
on each in a different way. Margaret’s mind was stirred to its depths
by this simple dream-picture, and seeing her so the two young men felt
a touch of sympathy with it.
‘Is there any sure foundation to go upon as to this playmate of
Shakespeare’s?’ inquired Mr. Erin, note-book in hand—‘any record, any
document?’
The visitor shook his head. ‘Nothing, but wherever, in the country
round, Shakespeare’s youth is alluded to, this story of his friend is
told. It is a local legend, that is all; but it seems to me to have
life in it. The world outside knows nothing of it. It interests itself
in Shakespeare only, and but little in his belongings; but with us,
breathing the air he breathed, walking on the same ground he trod,
things are different; we still fancy him amongst us, and not alone.
There is Hamnet, too; we still speak of Hamnet.’
It was fortunate for William Henry that he repressed the observation
that rose to his lips. He was about to say, ‘You don’t mean Hamlet, do
you?’
The same idea I am afraid occurred to Mr. Dennis, but for even a
briefer space; he felt that there must be some mistake somewhere; but
also that he himself might be making it.
‘Buried here, August the 11th, 1596,’ observed Mr. Erin, as though he
was reading from the register itself.
‘Just so,’ continued Jervis, ‘only a little over two hundred years ago.
He was eleven years old, too young to understand the greatness of him
who begat him, yet old enough to have an inkling of it. Once a year or
so, as it is believed, his father came home to Stratford fresh from the
companionship of the great London wits and poets—Jonson, Beaumont,
Fletcher, Camden, and Selden. What meetings must those have been with
his only son; the boy whom he fondly hoped, but hoped in vain, would
inherit the proceeds of his fame! I wonder how his mother used to
speak of her husband to her children? Did she excuse to them his long
absence, his dwelling afar off, or did she inveigh against it? Did she
recognise the splendour of his genius, or did she only love him? Or did
she not love him?’
‘Let us hope she was not unworthy of him,’ said Mr. Erin, his
enthusiasm, stirred by the other’s eloquence, rising on a stronger wing
than usual.
‘As a wife she was sorely tried,’ murmured Mr. Jervis. ‘I love to think
of her less than of Hamnet, so lowly born in one sense, and in the
other of such illustrious parentage. The news of his father’s growing
fame must have reached the boy, and the contrast could not fail to have
struck him. Then to have seen that father bending over his little bed,
to have kissed that noble face, and felt himself in his embrace; to
have known that he was the child whom Shakespeare’s soul loved best in
all the world, what a sensation, what an experience!’
‘Some mementoes of the immortal bard are, I hope, still to be
purchased?’ observed Mr. Erin curtly. He had engaged Mr. Jervis’s
services for practical purposes, and began to resent this waste of
time—which was money—upon sentimental hypothesis. Shakespeare’s wife
was a topic one could sympathise with; there was documentary evidence
in existence concerning her, but over little Hamnet’s grave there was
not even a tombstone.
‘Mementoes? Yes, there is mulberry-wood enough to last some time,’ said
Mr. Jervis slily; ‘you shall have your pick of them.’
‘But no MSS.?’
‘Not that I know of. There has been a report, however, of late, that
Mr. Williams, of Clopton House, has found some that were removed from
New Place at the time of the fire.’
‘Great heavens!’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, with much excitement, ‘what, from
New Place, Shakespeare’s own home? Let us go at once; all other things
can wait.—William Henry, come along with us, and bring your little
book.—You can stay here with Maggie, Dennis, till I come back.’
If he could have dispensed with the presence of John Jervis himself,
he would have been glad to do so; for what is true of a feast is also
true of treasure-trove, ‘the fewer (the finders) the better the fare.’