“Well! now are we in Arden,” said an English traveller to his companion,
as they passed between Coventry and Warwick, over ground, which his dear
Shakspeare had made classic. As he uttered this exclamation of Rosalind,
he looked forward with somewhat of the surprise and curiosity, which she
may be supposed to have felt, and with an enthusiasm all his own, on
beholding the very scene, into which the imagination of the poet had so
often transported him with a faint degree of its own rapture. He was
not, it appears, one of those critics, who think that the Arden of
Shakspeare, lay in France. But he looked in vain for the thick and
gloomy woods, which, in a former age, were the home of the doubtful
fugitive, and so much the terror of the traveller, that it had been
found necessary, on this very road, to clear the ground, for a breadth
of six acres on each side, in order to protect the wayfaring part of his
Majesty’s liege subjects.
Now, albeit the landscape was still wild and woody, he could not any
where espy a forest scene of dignity sufficient to call up before his
fancy the exiled duke and his court, at their hunter-feast, beneath the
twilight of the boughs; nor a single beech, under the grandeur of whose
shade the melancholy Jaques, might “lose and neglect the creeping hours
of time,” while he sadly sympathized with the poor stag, that, escaped
from the pursuit of man, came to drop his tears into the running brook,
and to die in quiet. Not even a grove appeared, through whose deep vista
the traveller might fancy that he caught, in the gayer light, a glimpse
of the wandering Rosalind and her companions, the wearied princess and
the motley fool, or of the figure of Orlando, leaning against an oak,
and listening to her song: he could not even catch the last faint echo
of that song, in a scene so different from the one his fancy had
represented to him for the forest of Arden.
“Alas!” said he, “that enchanting vision is no more found, except in the
very heart of a populous city, and then neither by the glimmering of the
dawn, nor by the glow of evening, but by the paltry light of
stage-lamps. Yet there, surrounded by a noisy multitude, whose cat-calls
often piped instead of the black-bird, I have found myself transported
into the wildest region of poetry and solitude; while here, on the very
spot which Shakspeare drew, I am suddenly let down from the full glow of
my holiday-feelings into the plain reality of this work-a-day world.”
Here ensued a conversation on illusions of the imagination and on the
various powers of exciting them, shown by English poets, especially by
Shakspeare and Milton, which it is unnecessary to repeat in this place.
Such was its length, that Mr. Simpson’s part in it had gradually become
less and less active, while Willoughton’s increased earnestness had
rendered him less and less sensible of the deficiency of replies. At
last, on his asking, rather peremptorily, whether his friend did not
recollect some fine effects of the towers of Windsor Castle upon the
imagination, Mr. Simpson, fortunately concealing how nearly he had
approached to a nap, answered, “No, no; I do not recollect any thing of
what you tell me; but you were talking a little while ago of Hamlet and
towers; now, if you want towers that would do honour to Hamlet, go to
Warwick Castle, and if we reach it, as we hope, this night, you can walk
from the inn while supper is preparing, and you will find, on the
terrace or platform before the gates, towers frowning and majestic
enough. If the moon is up, you will see them to perfection, and, as you
are so fond of ghosts, you can hardly fail to make an assignation with
one there.” “I shall delight in the advantage,” replied Willoughton,
laughing: “Though I am not so fond of ghosts in general, as you seem to
think. It is only for a few of particular excellence, that I feel a
friendship; for them, indeed, I am willing to own even an affection.”
Willoughton, not receiving a rejoinder, observed, that his friend had
fallen again into his nap; and he returned to the busy thoughts, to
which his first view of this land of Arden, the ground of Shakspeare,
had led. Sunk in reverie, he was no longer in the living scene, but
ranging over worlds of his own, till a jolt of the carriage awoke his
companion; who, shaking his head, and looking out of the window, with
the sudden alertness of one who thinks he has been losing time, now
supposed himself bound to brush up his thoughts and to talk to his
friend.
Willoughton could well have spared the interruption, till a remark,
delivered with an air of self-satisfaction, touched the string that
recalled him willingly to the present scene.
“There now is an oak,” said Simpson, “that may have been of Elizabeth’s
time, by the hollowness of its vast trunk and the state of its
branches.”
“Ay, long before her time,” said his companion, “and perhaps
Shakspeare’s eyes have dwelt on it; perhaps he has rested under its
shade:—O! we are coming now to something like the Forest of Arden: see
how finely the woods rise in the distance, and what a rich gleam the
western sun throws along the ground, beyond those low-hung boughs on our
left.”
As the travellers advanced upon Kenilworth-chace, the country assumed a
more forest-like appearance, and a new train of ideas engaged
Willoughton, on approaching the venerable ruins of the once magnificent
castle, at one period its prison, and at another, the _plaisance_ of
royalty, where Edward the II. groaned under the traiterous power of
Mortimer, and his abandoned Queen; and where the crafty Leicester
entertained Elizabeth, with princely splendour. The domain of this
castle, with its parks and chaces, included a circuit of nearly twenty
miles; and when a survey of it was taken in the reign of James the I.,
on its forfeiture by the voluntary exile and contempt of Sir Robert
Dudley, the son of Leicester and of his first wife, the Lady
Sheffield,—the woods alone were valued at twenty thousand pounds,
according to Dugdale, who observes of the castle and its territory, that
“the like, both for strength, state, and pleasure, was not within the
realm of England.”
Recollections of the long and varied history of this castle, crowded
upon the mind of Willoughton, and he looked out, with impatience, for a
glimpse of its stately towers in the distance, and then of its
mouldering gateways, in the sun gleam, beneath the woods that now rose
round him with majestic shade. Here, at least, was a mass and pomp of
foliage worthy of the noble ruin he was approaching and of the memory of
Arden; and, when he first caught a view of the grey walls and turrets
overtopping the woods, lighted up by the evening sun, whose long beams,
slanting now under the boughs, touched with a golden flush the bending
trunk of many an old beech standing deep within the shade, he uttered a
note of admiration and curiosity that discomposed Mr. Simpson, who
immediately directed the postilion to make his way to the nearest gate.
Soon afterwards they found themselves in a valley, whose woody slopes
excluded all distant prospect, and confined their attention to the
venerable relique, which seemed to characterise, with its own quiet
gloom, the surrounding landscape. They observed the several fine and
detached masses of the castle rising on a lone rock in the centre of
this secluded little valley; and, as they drove towards the only
entrance of the area of these deserted courts, near the square-turreted
gateway, which Leicester built for the grand approach to the castle, the
impatience of Willoughton became tempered with a gentle and luxurious
melancholy, and he forgot even Shakspeare, while he was influenced by
somewhat of the poet’s feelings.
But a sense of real life broke in upon him even in this scene of solemn
grandeur, and it required somewhat of the patience of a philosopher to
endure, in the full glow of his present enthusiasm, the clamorous
impetuosity of idle children, who, on the first sound of wheels, were
seen running to assail the strangers from every cottage on the
neighbouring banks. The visions of quiet solitude and of venerable
antiquity were, in an instant, dispersed; the chaise was surrounded, and
the travellers, having alighted, made their way with difficulty to the
little gate, that led through a garden beside Leicester’s ruined tower
into the area that was once the lower court of the castle, followed by a
noisy troop, whom neither money, nor command, could for some time
disperse.
The tower—the gateway being now closed up,—was no longer accessible to
curiosity, nor could gratify it by any traits of the customs of former
times. No warder’s bench lurked within the gloom, nor portcullis hung in
the arch. The warden’s chamber for those, who, by military tenure, kept
guard on certain nights of the year, was transformed into a light
parlour, and the whole building changed into a modern habitation. From
the green and broken square, anciently the lower court-yard, the
travellers looked up to the noble mass of ruins that yet stand proudly
on their rocky knoll, and form three irregular sides of what was once
the inner and grand court.
Of the fourth side, which separated the upper from the lower court, are
now no vestiges, save in the inequality of the ground where their
foundations stood, and where the walls, fallen from above, may lie
buried under the turf and briers, that now cover the spot.
On the left, the shattered walls of that lofty pile, built by Leicester
and still called by his name, advance proudly to the edge of the
eminence that overlooked the lower court, hung with the richest drapery
of ivy; on the right, stands the strong square tower, called Cæsar’s,
which, though the most ancient part of the castle, appears fresher and
less injured by time, than parts that were raised some ages later. This
was the keep, or citadel, of the castle; and the prodigious thickness of
the walls appears through the three arches in front, proportioned and
shaped like some which may yet be seen in aqueducts near Rome; the walls
here show a depth of fifteen or sixteen feet. The stone, of which this
noble tower is built, is of closer texture and of a greyer hue, than
that in any other part of the building; and this hue harmonizes
beautifully with the ivy towers, which overshadow its arches and
doorcases, and with the ashlings and elder crowning its summit, which
highly overtops every relique of this once magnificent abode of princes.
“It should seem,” said Willoughton, “that no human force could lay low
walls of such strength as these; yet, as one side of the tower is
destroyed, while the other three remain nearly entire, it must have been
assailed by some power more sudden and partial than that of time.”
“Yes, Sir, yes,” said a man, who had been standing by, observing the
strangers with attentive curiosity, “that part was pulled down by
Cromwell’s soldiers, and, if they had had more time on their side, they
would have pulled it all down; as it was, they did a mort of mischief.”
Willoughton turned to look at his informer, and saw a tall, thin man,
who appeared to be a villager, and who, without waiting for
encouragement, proceeded: “I have heard say, they destroyed all that
stood between Cæsar’s and John O’Gaunts tower there, at the end of the
great hall, and a deal on the other side of the court, between the
Whitehall and Lord Leicester’s buildings.”
“Are those walls before us the remains of the great hall?” inquired Mr.
Simpson, pointing to a picturesque mass of ruins, standing on the third
side of the upper court and seen in perspective between the other two.
“Yes, Sir,” said the man, “that there was the great banqueting-hall
where”—
“Leicester entertained Queen Elizabeth,” observed Willoughton. “How
beautifully the ivy falls over those light Gothic window-mullions and
that arched door-way, so appropriately and elegantly sculptured with
vine-leaves! The sun now slopes its rays through the arch, as if
purposely to show the beauty of its proportion and the grace of the vine
that entwines it.”
“Ay,” said Mr. Simpson, “many a pitcher of wine and many a baron of beef
have been carried under that arch by the king’s yeomen, when Henry the
Third kept his court here.”
“I doubt whether by yeomen,” replied Willoughton, “for, though yeomen of
the household are mentioned, about this time, yeomen of the guard, a
part of whose office it afterwards became to carry certain dishes to the
king’s table, do not occur till the reign of Henry the Seventh. However,
it is probable, that, before the appointment of the latter, yeomen of
the household might perform this business on state occasions, and in
that very hall may have stood before the long tables, in double row,
with wine ewers in their hands.”
“Those were times worth living in,” observed Mr. Simpson.
“Ay, those were jolly times! Sir,” said the stranger man; “it’s lonely
and sad enough in that old hall now; nothing but briers and ivy. Why,
there is an ivy tree now against that old wall there, partly as old as
the wall itself. Look, Sir, it is as grey, and almost as sapless as the
stone it crawls upon, though the trunk is such a size, and hardly shows
a green leaf, spring or summer.”
The travellers made their way among the briers to take a nearer view of
it; and, if verdant festoons of younger plants had charmed them,
Willoughton, at least, was no less affected by the withered sinews and
grey locks of this most forlorn and aged tree, which had itself become a
ruin, while adorning another. He climbed over hillocks of briers and
weeds, which now covered the ruins of walls, fallen into this
court-yard, and he looked down into the area of the great hall, through
a door-way which had once led from it by a vestibule towards the white
hall, of which latter hardly a vestige remains, and to King Henry’s
lodgings. Here he distinguished the upper end of that magnificent
banqueting-room, the very spot where the _deis_, or high table, had
stood, which had feasted kings and princes, its lords, or visitors;
where Henry the Third had sitten, where John O’Gaunt had caroused, and
where Elizabeth had received the homage of Leicester.
At one end of this platform were still the remains of the large
bay-window, opening upon the grand court, where the cup-board had stood,
and the golden plate was piled; at the other end, a windowed recess
bowed out towards the spot, where there had been a lake, and to woods,
that still flourished. This also, on state occasions, had probably held
a plate-board, or cup-board, and, on others, had been occupied as a
pleasant seat, commanding the finest views of the park.
The four walls only of this noble hall marked its former grandeur, not a
fragment of either roof, or floor, remaining; the ground, upon which
Willoughton immediately looked, having been the foundation of a chamber,
or hall, for domestic and inferior guests, under the great one, which
was eighty-six feet in length, and forty-five in width.
Those walls, where gorgeous tapestry had hung, showed only the remains
of doorways and of beautiful gothic windows, that had admitted the light
of the same sun, which at this moment sent the last gleam of another day
upon Willoughton, and warned him, that another portion of his life too
was departing.
The melancholy scene around him spoke, with the simplicity of truth, the
brevity and nothingness of this life. Those walls seemed to
say—“Generations have beheld us and passed away, as you now behold us,
and shall pass away. They have thought of the generations before their
time, as you now think of _them_, and as future ones shall think of you.
The voices, that revelled beneath us, the pomp of power, the
magnificence of wealth, the grace of beauty, the joy of hope, the
interests of high passion and of low pursuits have passed from this
scene for ever; yet we remain, the spectres of departed years and shall
remain, feeble as we are, when you, who now gaze upon us, shall have
ceased to be in this world!”
“Why, here is a stone bench yet in this old window,” said Mr. Simpson;
“and a pleasant window it is still. This homely bench has outlived all
the trappings of the castle, though, I dare say, it was little valued in
their time!”
“You see, Sir,” said the old man, “it belongs to the wall itself; else
it would have been carried off long ago.”
Willoughton turned at the now repeated voice of this stranger, whose
intrusion he did not entirely like, though his knowledge of the castle
might be useful, and his conduct did not appear to be ill-meant. To an
inquiry, whether he lived in the neighbourhood, he answered, “Hard by,
Sir, in Kenilworth. I saw you was a stranger, Sir, and thought you might
like to know a little about the castle here; and, unless you hap to
light on such a one as me, you may go away as wise as you came—for, you
will know nothing. No offence, I hope, Sir.”
“No, no; no offence at all;” replied Willoughton; “and since you are so
well acquainted with this spot, let me hear a little of what you know of
it.”
“Ay, let us hear what you have to say,” said Mr. Simpson.
Willoughton, turning as he heard this, perceived his friend seated in
the recess he had before noticed. Much remained of the beautiful
stone-work of this bay-window, and it now showed itself upon the glowing
west, where the sun had just descended, behind the dark woods of the
valley. He advanced into it, and looking out upon the scenery, was
interested by the stillness and solemnity that began to prevail over it.
At some distance down the steep bank on which the castle stands, he
could distinguish fragments of the walls that once surrounded it, with
here and there some remains of a tower, or a banqueting-house. The
ground below seemed marshy, but pasture of a better green stretched up
the opposite slopes, and mingled with the woods, that, on every side,
shut out the world! This valley seemed the home of a composed
melancholy.
“But where,” said Willoughton, “is the noble lake that, in Leicester’s
time, surrounded this castle, on which, as you may have heard, Queen
Elizabeth was welcomed with pageants and so much flattery?”
“Ay, where is it?” echoed Mr. Simpson, looking at the old man with an
air that seemed to say, “Now we have some use for you, and will put you
to the test.”