_To the Editor of the Every-Day Book._
Sir,
As in your little calendar of worthy observancies you sometimes notice
the birthdays of those whom we most desire, and who most deserve to be
remembered, and as I am one, who like yourself, am unwilling any thing
should be forgotten, or trodden down under the feet of thoughtless and
passing generations, that has pleasant speculation in it, pray remember
that on the first day of August, Francisco Petrarca was born.--But
remember also, that on that same day, in 1578, was born _our_ Juliet
Capulet. “On Lammas eve at night shall she be _fourteen_. That shall
she, marry; I remember it well. ’Tis since the earthquake now _eleven
years_, an’ she was weaned.” Shakspeare’s characters, as we all know, be
they of what country or of what age they may, speak as an Englishman
would have done in his own times, and the earthquake here referred to
was felt in 1580. That Juliet, _our_ Juliet, should have been born on
the very same day as Petrarch was certainly accidental; yet it is a
coincidence worth observing; and if a calendar of birthdays be to recall
pleasant recollections, over “our chirping cups,” why may not Juliet be
remembered, and her sweetly poetical existence be associated with the
reality of Petrarca’s life. And where is the difference? Petrarca is,
-------nor hand nor foot
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man.
And what are all the great men that have ever lived but such mocking
names? Montaigne, who translated a theological work by Raimondi di
Sibondi, on being told by some learned friend that he suspected it was
but an abstract of St. Thomas of Aquin, says “’tis a pity to _rob
Sibondi_ of _his_ honours on such slight authority:”--what honours? when
are they offered? to whom? it is not known that such a man ever had
existence! Not love, nor reverence, nor idolatrous admiration can stay
the progress of oblivion: the grave shuts us out for ever from our
fellows, and our generation is the limit of our personal and real
existence:--mind only is immortal. Francisco Petrarca was dead, and
buried, and forgotten, five hundred years ago: he is now no more in
reality than Juliet; nay, to myself, not so much so. The witches in
Macbeth, though pure creations, have more of flesh and blood reality,
are more familiar to the thoughts of all, than the Lancashire witches
that lived cotemporary with the poet, and suffered death from the
superstition of the age. There have been many Shakspeares, we _know_ but
one; that one indeed, from association and recollection, has a real
character in our minds, and a real presence in our hearts:--have we
neither association nor recollection with the name Juliet Capulet?