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SHAKESPEARE'S ENGLAND
BY
WILLIAM WINTER
New Edition, Revised, with Illustrations
_New York_
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1898
_All rights reserved_
Copyright, 1892,
BY MACMILLAN AND CO.
------
_Illustrated Edition,_
COPYRIGHT, 1893,
BY MACMILLAN AND CO.
------
First published elsewhere.
Set up and electrotyped by Macmillan & Co., April, 1892.
Reprinted November, 1892; January, 1893.
Illustrated edition, revised throughout, in crown 8v0, set up and
Electrotyped June, 1893. Reprinted October, 1893; August, 1895;
September, 1898.
_Norwood Press_
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
To _Whitelaw Reid_
IN HONOUR OF EXALTED VIRTUES
ADORNING A LIFE OF
NOBLE ACHIEVEMENT AND PATIENT KINDNESS
AND IN REMEMBRANCE OF
FAITHFUL AND GENTLE FRIENDSHIP
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
------
_"Tum meae, si quid loquar audiendum,
Vocis accedet bona pars"_
PREFACE TO THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE'S ENGLAND
_The favour with which this book has been received, alike in Great
Britain and America, is thought to warrant a reproduction of it with
pictorial embellishment, and accordingly it is offered in the present
form. I have revised the text for this reprint, and my friend Mr. George
P. Brett, of the house of Messrs. Macmillan and Company,--at whose
suggestion the pictorial edition was undertaken,--has supervised the
choice of pictures for its adornment. The approval that the work has
elicited is a source of deep gratification. It signifies that my
endeavour to reflect the gentle sentiment of English landscape and the
romantic character of English rural life has not proved altogether
in vain. It also shows that an appeal may confidently be
made,--irrespective of transitory literary fashions and of popular
caprice,--to the love of the ideal, the taste for simplicity, and the
sentiment of veneration. In these writings there is, I hope, a profound
practical deference to the perfect standard of style that is represented
by such illustrious exemplars as Addison, Goldsmith, Sterne, and Gray.
This frail fabric may perish: that standard is immortal; and whatever
merit this book may possess is due to an instinctive and passionate
devotion to the ideal denoted by those shining names. These sketches
were written out of love for the subject. The first book of them, called
_The Trip to England, _reprinted, with changes, from the _New York
Tribune, _was made for me, at the De Vinne Press. The subsequent growth
of the work is traced in the earlier Preface, herewith reprinted. The
title of _Shakespeare's England _was given to it when the first English
edition was published, by Mr. David Douglas, of Edinburgh. It has been
my privilege to make various tours of the British islands, since those
of _1877 _and _1882, _recorded here; and my later books, _Gray Days and
Gold, _and _Old Shrines and Ivy, _should be read in association with
this one, by those persons who care for a wider glimpse of the same
delightful field, in the same companionship, and especially by those who
like to follow the record of exploration and change in Shakespeare's
home. As to the question of accuracy,--and indeed, as to all other
questions,--it is my wish that this book may be judged by the text of
the present edition, which is the latest and the best._
_W. W._
June 6, 1893.
PREFACE
_Beautiful and storied scenes that have soothed and elevated the mind
naturally inspire a feeling of gratitude. Prompted by that feeling the
present author has written this record of his rambles in England. It was
his wish, in dwelling upon the rural loveliness and the literary and
historical associations of that delightful realm, to afford sympathetic
guidance and useful suggestion to other American travellers who, like
himself, might be attracted to roam among the shrines of the mother
land. There is no pursuit more fascinating or in a high intellectual
sense more remunerative; since it serves to define and regulate
knowledge, to correct misapprehensions of fact, to broaden the mental
vision, to ripen and refine the Judgment and the taste, and to fill the
memory with ennobling recollections. These papers commemorate two visits
to England, the first made in _1877, _the second in _1882; _they
occasionally touch upon the same place or scene as observed at different
times; and especially they describe two distinct journeys, separated by
an interval of five years, through the region associated with the great
name of Shakespeare. Repetitions of the same reference, which now and
then occur, were found unavoidable by the writer, but it is hoped that
they will not be found tedious by the reader. Those who walk twice in
the same pathways should be pleased, and not pained, to find the same
wild-flowers growing beside them. The first American edition of this
work consisted of two volumes, published in _1879, 1881, _and _1884,
_called _The Trip to England _and _English Rambles. _The former book was
embellished with poetic illustrations by Joseph Jefferson, the famous
comedian, my life-long friend. The paper on _Shakespeare's
Home,--_written to record for American readers the dedication of the
Shakespeare Memorial at Stratford,_--_was first printed in _Harper's
Magazine, _in May _1879. _with delicate illustrative pictures from the
graceful pencil of Edwin Abbey. This compendium of the _Trip _and the
_Rambles, _with the title of _Shakespeare's England, _was first
published by David Douglas of Edinburgh. That title was chosen for the
reason that the book relates largely to Warwickshire and because it
depicts not so much the England of fact as the England created and
hallowed by the spirit of her poetry, of which Shakespeare is the soul.
Several months after the publication of _Shakespeare's England _the
writer was told of a work, published many years ago, bearing a similar
title, though relating to a different theme--the physical state of
England in Shakespeare's time. He had never heard of it and has never
seen it. The text for the present reprint has been carefully revised. To
his British readers the author would say that it is neither from lack of
sympathy with the happiness around him nor from lack of faith in the
future of his country that his writings have drifted toward the pathos
in human experience and toward the hallowing associations of an old
historic land. Temperament is the explanation of style: and he has
written thus of England because she has filled his mind with beauty and
his heart with mingled joy and sadness: and surely some memory of her
venerable ruins, her ancient shrines, her rustic glens, her gleaming
rivers, and her flower-spangled meadows will mingle with the last
thoughts that glimmer through his brain, when the shadows of the eternal
night are falling and the ramble of life is done._
_W. W._
1892.
CONTENTS
Preface To Illustrated Edition
Old Preface
CHAPTER I.
The Voyage
CHAPTER II.
Beauty Of England
CHAPTER III.
Great Historic Places
CHAPTER IV.
Rambles In London
CHAPTER V.
A Visit To Windsor
CHAPTER VI.
The Palace Of Westminster.
CHAPTER VII.
Warwick And Kenilworth
CHAPTER VIII.
First View Of Stratford-Upon-Avon
CHAPTER IX.
London Nooks And Corners
CHAPTER X.
Relics Of Lord Byron
CHAPTER XI.
Westminster Abbey
CHAPTER XII.
Shakespeare's Home
CHAPTER XIII.
Up to London
CHAPTER XIV.
Old Churches of London
CHAPTER XV.
Literary Shrines of London
CHAPTER XVI.
A Haunt Of Edmund Kean
CHAPTER XVII.
Stoke-Pogis and Thomas Gray
CHAPTER XVIII.
At The Grave of Coleridge
CHAPTER XIX.
On Barnet Battle-field
CHAPTER XX.
A Glimpse Of Canterbury
CHAPTER XXI.
The Shrines Of Warwickshire
CHAPTER XXII.
A Borrower of The Night
ILLUSTRATIONS
Portrait of William Winter--from a crayon by Arthur Jule Goodman
The Anchor Inn
Old House at Bridport
Restoration House, Rochester
Charing Cross
Kensington Palace
The Tower of London
Old Water Gate
Approach to Cheshire Cheese
St. Mary-le-Strand
Temple Church
Gower's Monument
Andrews's Monument
Old Tabard Inn, Southwark
Windsor Castle
St. George's Chapel, Windsor Castle
Windsor Forest and Park
The Curfew Tower
The Sign of the Swan
Westminster Hall
The Mace
Greenwich Hospital
Queen Elizabeth's Cradle
Warwick Castle
Old Inn
Washington Irving's Parlour
From the Warwick Shield
Holy Trinity Church, Stratford
The Inglenook
Approach to Shottery
Distant View of Stratford
Whitehall Gateway
Lambeth Palace
Dulwich College
The Crown Inn, Dulwich
Oriel Window
From the Triforium, Westminster Abbey
Chapel of Henry VII.
Chapel of Edward the Confessor
The Poets' Corner
The North Ambulatory
The Spaniards, Hampstead
The Dome of St. Paul's
The Grange
Shakespeare's Birthplace
Anne Hathaway's Cottage
Charlecote
Meadow Walk by the Avon
Antique Font
Monument
Gable Window
Peveril Peak
St. Paul's, from Maiden Lane
The Charter-house
St. Giles', Cripplegate
Sir John Crosby's Monument
Gresham's Monument
Goldsmith's House
A Bit from Clare Court
Fleet Street in 1780
Gray's Inn Square
Stoke-Pogis Church
Old Church
The White Hart
Column on Barnet Battle-field
Farm-house
Falstaff Inn and West Gate, Canterbury
Butchery Lane, Canterbury
Flying-horse Inn, Canterbury
Canterbury Cathedral
Stratford-upon-Avon
Stratford Church
Washington Irving's Chair
The Stratford Memorial
Mary Arden's Cottage
Church of St. Martin
Westminster Abbey
Middle Temple Lane
_This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,_
_This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,_
_This other Eden, demi-paradise,_
_This fortress built by Nature for herself, . . ._
_This precious stone set in the silver sea, . . ._
_This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, . . ._
_This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,_
_Dear for her reputation through the world!_
SHAKESPEARE.
------
_All that I saw returns upon my view;_
_All that I heard comes back upon my ear;_
_All that I felt this moment doth renew._
_Fair land! by Time's parental love made free,_
_By Social Order's watchful arms embraced,_
_With unexampled union meet in thee,_
_For eye and mind, the present and the past;_
_With golden prospect for futurity,_
_If that be reverenced which ought to last._
WORDSWORTH.
SHAKESPEARE'S ENGLAND
CHAPTER I
THE VOYAGE
1887
The coast-line recedes and disappears, and night comes down upon the
ocean. Into what dangers will the great ship plunge? Through what
mysterious waste of waters will she make her viewless path? The black
waves roll up around her. The strong blast fills her sails and whistles
through her creaking cordage. Overhead the stars shine dimly amid the
driving clouds. Mist and gloom close in the dubious prospect, and a
strange sadness settles upon the heart of the voyager--who has left his
home behind, and who now seeks, for the first time, the land, the homes,
and the manners of the stranger. Thoughts and images of the past crowd
thick upon his remembrance. The faces of absent friends rise before him,
whom, perhaps, he is destined nevermore to behold. He sees their smiles;
he hears their voices; he fancies them by familiar hearth-stones, in the
light of the evening lamps. They are very far away now; and already it
seems months instead of hours since the parting moment. Vain now the
pang of regret for misunderstandings, unkindness, neglect; for golden
moments slighted and gentle courtesies left undone. He is alone upon the
wild sea--all the more alone because surrounded with new faces of
unknown companions--and the best he can do is to seek his lonely pillow
and lie down with a prayer in his heart and on his lips. Never before
did he so clearly know--never again will he so deeply feel--the
uncertainty of human life and the weakness of human nature. Yet, as he
notes the rush and throb of the vast ship and the noise of the breaking
waves around her, and thinks of the mighty deep beneath, and the broad
and melancholy expanse that stretches away on every side, he cannot miss
the impression--grand, noble, and thrilling--of human courage, skill,
and power. For this ship is the centre of a splendid conflict. Man and
the elements are here at war; and man makes conquest of the elements by
using them as weapons against themselves. Strong and brilliant, the
head-light streams over the boiling surges. Lanterns gleam in the tops.
Dark figures keep watch upon the prow. The officer of the night is at
his post upon the bridge. Let danger threaten howsoever it may, it
cannot come unawares; it cannot subdue, without a tremendous struggle,
the brave minds and hardy bodies that are here arrayed to meet it. With
this thought, perhaps, the weary voyager sinks to sleep; and this is his
first night at sea.
There is no tediousness of solitude to him who has within himself
resources of thought and dream, the pleasures and pains of memory, the
bliss and the torture of imagination. It is best to have few
acquaintances--or none--on shipboard. Human companionship, at some
times, and this is one of them, distracts by its pettiness. The voyager
should yield himself to nature now, and meet his own soul face to face.
The routine of everyday life is commonplace enough, equally upon sea and
land. But the ocean is a continual pageant, filling and soothing the
mind with unspeakable peace. Never, in even the grandest words of
poetry, was the grandeur of the sea expressed. Its vastness, its
freedom, its joy, and its beauty overwhelm the mind. All things else
seem puny and momentary beside the life that this immense creation
unfolds and inspires. Sometimes it shines in the sun, a wilderness of
shimmering silver. Sometimes its long waves are black, smooth,
glittering, and dangerous. Sometimes it seems instinct with a superb
wrath, and its huge masses rise, and clash together, and break into
crests of foam. Sometimes it is gray and quiet, as if in a sullen sleep.
Sometimes the white mist broods upon it and deepens the sense of awful
mystery by which it is forever enwrapped. At night its surging billows
are furrowed with long streaks of phosphorescent fire; or, it may be,
the waves roll gently, under the soft light of stars; or all the waste
is dim, save where, beneath the moon, a glorious pathway, broadening out
to the far horizon, allures and points to heaven. One of the most
exquisite delights of the voyage, whether by day or night, is to lie
upon the deck in some secluded spot, and look up at the tall, tapering
spars as they sway with the motion of the ship, while over them the
white clouds float, in ever-changing shapes, or the starry
constellations drift, in their eternal march. No need now of books, or
newspapers, or talk! The eyes are fed by every object they behold. The
great ship, with all her white wings spread, careening like a tiny
sail-boat, dips and rises, with sinuous, stately grace. The clank of her
engines--fit type of steadfast industry and purpose--goes steadily on.
The song of the sailors--"Give me some time to blow the man down"--rises
in cheery melody, full of audacious, light-hearted thoughtlessness, and
strangely tinged with the romance of the sea. Far out toward the horizon
many whales come sporting and spouting along. At once, out of the
distant bank of cloud and mist, a little vessel springs into view, and
with convulsive movement--tilting up and down like the miniature barque
upon an old Dutch clock--dances across the vista and vanishes into
space. Soon a tempest bursts upon the calm; and then, safe-housed from
the fierce blast and blinding rain, the voyager exults over the stern
battle of winds and waters and the stalwart, undaunted strength with
which his ship bears down the furious floods and stems the gale. By and
by a quiet hour is given, when, met together with the companions of his
journey, he stands in the hushed cabin and hears the voice of prayer and
the hymn of praise, and, in the pauses, a gentle ripple of waves against
the ship, which now rocks lazily upon the sunny deep; and, ever and
anon, as she dips, he can discern through her open ports the shining sea
and the wheeling and circling gulls that have come out to welcome her to
the shores of the old world.
The present writer, when first he saw the distant and dim coast of
Britain, felt, with a sense of forlorn loneliness that he was a
stranger; but when last he saw that coast he beheld it through a mist of
tears and knew that he had parted from many cherished friends, from many
of the gentlest men and women upon the earth, and from a land henceforth
as dear to him as his own. England is a country which to see is to love.
As you draw near to her shores you are pleased at once with the air of
careless finish and negligent grace that everywhere overhangs the
prospect. The grim, wind-beaten hills of Ireland have first been
passed--hills crowned, here and there, with dark, fierce towers that
look like strongholds of ancient bandit chiefs, and cleft by dim valleys
that seem to promise endless mystery and romance, hid in their sombre
depths. Passed also is white Queenstown, with its lovely little bay, its
circle of green hillsides, and its valiant fort; and picturesque
Fastnet, with its gaily painted tower, has long been left behind. It is
off the noble crags of Holyhead that the voyager first observes with
what a deft skill the hand of art has here moulded nature's luxuriance
into forms of seeming chance-born beauty; and from that hour, wherever
in rural England the footsteps of the pilgrim may roam, he will behold
nothing but gentle rustic adornment, that has grown with the grass and
the roses--greener grass and redder roses than ever we see in our
western world! In the English nature a love of the beautiful is
spontaneous, and the operation of it is as fluent as the blowing of the
summer wind. Portions of English cities, indeed, are hard and harsh and
coarse enough to suit the most utilitarian taste; yet even in those
regions of dreary monotony the national love of flowers will find
expression, and the people, without being aware of it, will, in many odd
little ways, beautify their homes and make their surroundings pictorial,
at least to stranger eyes. There is a tone of rest and homelike comfort
even in murky Liverpool; and great magnificence is there--as well of
architecture and opulent living as of enterprise and action. "Towered
cities" and "the busy hum of men," however, are soon left behind by the
wise traveller in England. A time will come for those; but in his first
sojourn there he soon discovers the two things that are utterly to
absorb him--which cannot disappoint--and which are the fulfilment of all
his dreams. These things are--the rustic loveliness of the land and the
charm of its always vital and splendid antiquity. The green lanes, the
thatched cottages, the meadows glorious with wildflowers, the little
churches covered with dark-green ivy, the Tudor gables festooned with
roses, the devious footpaths that wind across wild heaths and long and
lonesome fields, the narrow, shining rivers, brimful to their banks and
crossed here and there with gray, moss-grown bridges, the stately elms
whose low-hanging branches droop over a turf of emerald velvet, the
gnarled beech-trees "that wreathe their old, fantastic roots so high,"
the rooks that caw and circle in the air, the sweet winds that blow from
fragrant woods, the sheep and the deer that rest in shady places, the
pretty children who cluster round the porches of their cleanly, cosy
homes, and peep at the wayfarer as he passes, the numerous and often
brilliant birds that at times fill the air with music, the brief, light,
pleasant rains that ever and anon refresh the landscape--these are some
of the everyday joys of rural England; and these are wrapped in a
climate that makes life one serene ecstasy. Meantime, in rich valleys or
on verdant slopes, a thousand old castles and monasteries, ruined or
half in ruins, allure the pilgrim's gaze, inspire his imagination,
arouse his memory, and fill his mind. The best romance of the past and
the best reality of the present are his banquet now; and nothing is
wanting to the perfection of the feast. I thought that life could have
but few moments of content in store for me like the moment--never to be
forgotten!--when, in the heart of London, on a perfect June day, I lay
upon the grass in the old Green Park, and, for the first time, looked up
to the towers of Westminster Abbey.