"And the enterprisin tradesman," I continnerd, "the moment the
Prince gets out of sight, rushes frantically and has a tin sign
painted, By Appintment, H.R.H.! It is a beautiful, a great
idee!"
I then bought a pair of shoe strings, and wringin the shopman's
honest hand, I started for the Tomb of Shakspeare in a hired fly.
It look't however more like a spider.
"And this," I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at
Stratford, beside a Tombstone, "this marks the spot where lies
William W. Shakspeare. Alars! and this is the spot where--"
"You've got the wrong grave," said a man--a worthy villager:
"Shakspeare is buried inside the church."
"Oh," I said, "a boy told me this was it." The boy larfed and
put the shillin I'd given him onto his left eye in a inglorious
manner, and commenced moving backwards towards the street.
I pursood and captered him, and after talking to him a spell in a
skarcastic stile, I let him went.
The old church was damp and chill. It was rainin. The only
persons there when I entered was a fine bluff old gentleman who
was talking in a excited manner to a fashnibly dressed young man.
"No, Earnest Montresser," the old gentleman said, "it is idle to
pursoo this subjeck no further. You can never marry my daughter.
You were seen last Monday in Piccadilly without a umbreller! I
said then, as I say now, any young man as venturs out in a
uncertain climit like this without a umbreller, lacks foresight,
caution, strength of mind and stability; and he is not a proper
person to intrust a daughter's happiness to."
I slapt the old gentleman on the shoulder, and I said: "You're
right! You're one of those kind of men, you are--"
He wheeled suddenly round, and in a indignant voice, said, "Go
way--go way! This is a privit intervoo."
I didn't stop to enrich the old gentleman's mind with my
conversation. I sort of inferred that he wasn't inclined to
listen to me, and so I went on. But he was right about the
umbreller. I'm really delighted with this grand old country,
"Mr. Punch," but you must admit that it does rain rayther
numerously here. Whether this is owing to a monerkal form of
gov'ment or not I leave all candid and onprejudiced persons to
say.
William Shakspeare was born in Stratford in 1564. All the
commentaters, Shaksperian scholars, etsetry, are agreed on this,
which is about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to
him, except that his mantle hasn't fallen onto any poet or
dramatist hard enough to hurt said poet or dramatist MUCH. And
there is no doubt if these commentaters and persons continner
investigating Shakspeare's career, we shall not, in doo time,
know anything about it at all.
When a mere lad little William attended the Grammar School,
because, as he said, the Grammar School wouldn't attend him.
This remarkable remark, comin from one so young and inexperunced,
set peple to thinkin there might be somethin in this lad. He
subsequently wrote "Hamlet" and "George Barnwell." When his kind
teacher went to London to accept a position in the offices of the
Metropolitan Railway, little William was chosen by his fellow
pupils to deliver a farewell address.
"Go on, Sir," he said, "in a glorus career. Be like a eagle, and
soar and the soarer you get the more we shall all be gratified!
That's so."
My young readers, who wish to know about Shakspeare, better get
these vallyable remarks framed.
I returned to the hotel. Meetin a young married couple, they
asked me if I could direct them to the hotel which Washington
Irving used to keep?
"I've understood that he was onsuccessful as a lan'lord," said
the lady.
"We've understood," said the young man, "that he busted up."
I told 'em I was a stranger, and hurried away. They were from my
country, and ondoubtedly represented a thrifty Ile well somewhere
in Pennsylvany. It's a common thing, by the way, for a old farmer
in Pennsylvany to wake up some mornin' and find ile squirtin all
around his back yard. He sells out for 'normous price, and his
children put on gorgeous harness and start on a tower to astonish
people. They succeed in doin it. Meantime the Ile squirts and
squirts, and Time rolls on. Let it roll.
A very nice old town is Stratford, and a capital inn is the Red
Horse. Every admirer of the great S. must go there once
certinly; and to say one isn't a admirer of him, is equv'lent to
sayin one has jest about brains enough to become a efficient
tinker.
Some kind person has sent me Chawcer's "poems." Mr. C. had
talent, but he couldn't spel. No man has a right to be a
lit'rary man onless he knows how to spel. It is a pity that
Chawcer, who had geneyus, was so unedicated. He's the wuss
speller I know of.
I guess I'm through, and so I lay down the pen, which is more
mightier than the sword, but which I'm fraid would stand a
rayther slim chance beside the needle gun.
Adoo! Adoo!
Artemus Ward.