"Philomel with melody sing in our sweet lullaby,
Lulla, lulla, lullaby.
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh."
I suppose the meadows, with their "winking Mary-buds," will be all cut
up into building lots in the good times coming, and Philomel caught and
put in a cage to sing to tourists at threepence a head.
We went to the White Lion, and soon had a little quiet parlor to
ourselves, neatly carpeted, with a sofa drawn up to the cheerful coal
fire, a good-toned piano, and in short every thing cheerful and
comfortable.
At first we thought we were too tired to do any thing till after dinner;
we were going to take time to rest ourselves and proceed leisurely; so,
while the cloth was laying, C---- took possession of the piano, and I of
the sofa, till Mr. S. came in upon us, saying, "Why, Shakspeare's house
is right the next door here!" Upon that we got up, just to take a peep,
and from peeping we proceeded to looking, and finally put on our things
and went over _seriatim_. The house has recently been bought by a
Shakspearian club, who have taken upon themselves the restoration and
preservation of the premises.
Shakspeare's father, it seems, was a man of some position and substance
in his day, being high sheriff and justice of the peace for the borough;
and this house, therefore, I suppose, may be considered a specimen of
the respectable class of houses in the times of Queen Elizabeth. This
cut is taken from an old print, and is supposed to represent the
original condition of the house.
We saw a good many old houses somewhat similar to this on the road,
particularly resembling it in this manner of plastering, which shows all
the timber on the outside. Parts of the house have been sold, altered,
and used for various purposes; a butcher's stall having been kept in a
part of it, and a tavern in another portion, being new-fronted with
brick.
The object of this Shakspeare Club has been to repurchase all these
parts, and restore them as nearly as possible to their primeval
condition. The part of the house which is shown consists of a lower
room, which is floored with flat stones very much broken. It has a wide,
old-fashioned chimney on one side, and opens into a smaller room back of
it. From thence you go up a rude flight of stairs to a low-studded room,
with rough-plastered walls, where the poet was born.
The prints of this room, which are generally sold, allow themselves in
considerable poetic license, representing it in fact as quite an elegant
apartment, whereas, though it is kept scrupulously neat and clean, the
air of it is ancient and rude. This is a somewhat flattered likeness.
The roughly-plastered walls are so covered with names that it seemed
impossible to add another. The name of almost every modern genius, names
of kings, princes, dukes, are shown here; and it is really curious to
see by what devices some very insignificant personages have endeavored
to make their own names conspicuous in the crowd. Generally speaking the
inscription books and walls of distinguished places tend to give great
force to the Vulgate rendering of Ecclesiastes i. 15, "The number of
fools is infinite."
To add a name in a private, modest way to walls already so crowded, is
allowable; but to scrawl one's name, place of birth, and country, half
across a wall, covering scores of names under it, is an operation which
speaks for itself. No one would ever want to know more of a man than to
see his name there and thus.
Back of this room were some small bed rooms, and what interested me
much, a staircase leading up into a dark garret. I could not but fancy I
saw a bright-eyed, curly-headed boy creeping up those stairs, zealous to
explore the mysteries of that dark garret. There perhaps he saw the cat,
with "eyne of burning coal, crouching 'fore the mouse's hole." Doubtless
in this old garret were wonderful mysteries to him, curious stores of
old cast-off goods and furniture, and rats, and mice, and cobwebs. I
fancied the indignation of some belligerent grandmother or aunt, who
finds Willie up there watching a mouse hole, with the cat, and has him
down straightway, grumbling that Mary did not govern that child better.
We know nothing who this Mary was that was his mother; but one sometimes
wonders where in that coarse age, when queens and ladies talked
familiarly, as women would blush to talk now, and when the broad, coarse
wit of the Merry Wives of Windsor was gotten up to suit the taste of a
virgin queen,--one wonders, I say, when women were such and so, where he
found those models of lily-like purity, women so chaste in soul and
pure in language that they could not even bring their lips to utter a
word of shame. Desdemona cannot even bring herself to speak the coarse
word with which her husband taunts her; she cannot make herself believe
that there are women in the world who could stoop-to such grossness.[L]
For my part I cannot believe that, in such an age, such deep
heart-knowledge of pure womanhood could have come otherwise than by the
impression on the child's soul of a mother's purity. I seem to have a
vision of one of those women whom the world knows not of, silent,
deep-hearted, loving, whom the coarser and more practically efficient
jostle aside and underrate for their want of interest in the noisy
chitchat and commonplace of the day; but who yet have a sacred power,
like that of the spirit of peace, to brood with dovelike wings over the
childish heart, and quicken into life the struggling, slumbering
elements of a sensitive nature.
I cannot but think, in that beautiful scene, where he represents
Desdemona as amazed and struck dumb with the grossness and brutality of
the charges which had been thrown upon her, yet so dignified in the
consciousness of her own purity, so magnanimous in the power of
disinterested, forgiving love, that he was portraying no ideal
excellence, but only reproducing, under fictitious and supposititious
circumstances, the patience, magnanimity, and enduring love which had
shone upon him in the household words and ways of his mother.
It seemed to me that in that bare and lowly chamber I saw a vision of a
lovely face which was the first beauty that dawned on those childish
eyes, and heard that voice whose lullaby tuned his ear to an exquisite
sense of cadence and rhythm. I fancied that, while she thus serenely
shone upon, him like a benignant star, some rigorous grand-aunt took
upon her the practical part of his guidance, chased up his wanderings to
the right and left, scolded him for wanting to look out of the window
because his little climbing toes left their mark on the neat wall, or
rigorously arrested him when his curly head was seen bobbing off at the
bottom of the street, following a bird, or a dog, or a showman;
intercepting him in some happy hour when he was aiming to strike off on
his own account to an adjoining field for "winking Mary-buds;" made long
sermons to him on the wickedness of muddying his clothes and wetting his
new shoes, (if he had any,) and told him that something dreadful would
come out of the graveyard and catch him if he was not a better boy,
imagining that if it were not for her bustling activity Willie would go
straight to destruction.
I seem, too, to have a kind of perception of Shakspeare's father; a
quiet, God-fearing, thoughtful man, given to the reading of good books,
avoiding quarrels with a most Christian-like fear, and with but small
talent, either in the way of speech making or money getting; a man who
wore his coat with an easy slouch, and who seldom knew where his money
went to.
All these things I seemed to perceive as if a sort of vision had
radiated from the old walls; there seemed to be the rustling of garments
and the sound of voices in the deserted rooms; the pattering of feet on
the worm-eaten staircase; the light of still, shady summer afternoons, a
hundred years ago, seemed to fall through the casements and lie upon the
floor. There was an interest to every thing about the house, even to
the quaint iron fastenings about the windows; because those might have
arrested that child's attention, and been dwelt on in some dreamy hour
of infant thought. The fires that once burned in those old chimneys, the
fleeting sparks, the curling smoke, and glowing coals, all may have
inspired their fancies. There is a strong tinge of household coloring in
many parts of Shakspeare, imagery that could only have come from such
habits of quiet, household contemplation. See, for example, this
description of the stillness of the house, after all are gone to bed at
night:--
"Now sleep yslaked hath the rout;
No din but snores, the house about,
Made louder by the o'er-fed breast
Of this most pompous marriage feast.
The cat, with, eyne of burning coal,
Now crouches 'fore the mouse's hole;
And, crickets sing at th' oven's mouth,
As the blither for their drouth."
Also this description of the midnight capers of the fairies about the
house, from Midsummer Night's Dream:--
PUCK. "Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with, weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,
Puts the wretch, that lies in woe,
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night,
That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the churchway paths to glide:
And we fairies that do run
By the triple Hecate's team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic; not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallowed house:
I am sent with, broom, before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.
OBE. Through this house give glimmering light,
By the dead and drowsy fire:
Every elf, and fairy sprite,
Hop as light as bird, from brier;
And this ditty after me
Sing, and dance it trippingly."
By the by, one cannot but be struck with the resemblance, in the spirit
and coloring of these lines, to those very similar ones in the Penseroso
of Milton:--
"Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm;
While glowing embers, through the room,
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom."
I have often noticed how much the first writings of Milton resemble in
their imagery and tone of coloring those of Shakspeare, particularly in
the phraseology and manner of describing flowers. I think, were a
certain number of passages from Lycidas and Comus interspersed with a
certain number from Midsummer Night's Dream, the imagery, tone of
thought, and style of coloring, would be found so nearly identical, that
it would be difficult for one not perfectly familiar to distinguish
them. You may try it.
That Milton read and admired Shakspeare is evident from his allusion to
him in L'Allegro. It is evident, however, that Milton's taste had been
so formed by the Greek models, that he was not entirely aware of all
that was in Shakspeare; he speaks of him as a sweet, fanciful warbler,
and it is exactly in sweetness and fancifulness that he seems to have
derived benefit from him. In his earlier poems, Milton seems, like
Shakspeare, to have let his mind run freely, as a brook warbles over
many-colored pebbles; whereas in his great poem he built after models.
Had he known as little Latin and Greek as Shakspeare, the world, instead
of seeing a well-arranged imitation of the ancient epics from his pen,
would have seen inaugurated a new order of poetry.
An unequalled artist, who should build after the model of a Grecian
temple, would doubtless produce a splendid and effective building,
because a certain originality always inheres in genius, even when
copying; but far greater were it to invent an entirely new style of
architecture, as different as the Gothic from the Grecian. This merit
was Shakspeare's. He was a superb Gothic poet; Milton, a magnificent
imitator of old forms, which by his genius were wrought almost into the
energy of new productions.
I think Shakspeare is to Milton precisely what Gothic architecture is to
Grecian, or rather to the warmest, most vitalized reproductions of the
Grecian; there is in Milton a calm, severe majesty, a graceful and
polished inflorescence of ornament, that produces, as you look upon it,
a serene, long, strong ground-swell of admiration and approval. Yet
there is a cold unity of expression, that calls into exercise only the
very highest range of our faculties: there is none of that wreathed
involution of smiles and tears, of solemn earnestness and quaint
conceits; those sudden uprushings of grand and magnificent sentiment,
like the flame-pointed arches of cathedrals; those ranges of fancy, half
goblin, half human; those complications of dizzy magnificence with fairy
lightness; those streamings of many-colored light; those carvings
wherein every natural object is faithfully reproduced, yet combined into
a kind of enchantment: the union of all these is in Shakspeare, and not
in Milton. Milton had one most glorious phase of humanity in its
perfection; Shakspeare had all united; from the "deep and dreadful"
sub-bass of the organ to the most aerial warbling of its highest key,
not a stop or pipe was wanting.
But, in fine, at the end of all this we went back to our hotel to
dinner. After dinner we set out to see the church. Even Walter Scott has
not a more poetic monument than this church, standing as it does amid
old, embowering trees, on the beautiful banks of the Avon. A soft, still
rain was falling on the leaves of the linden trees, as we walked up the
avenue to the church. Even rainy though it was, I noticed that many
little birds would occasionally break out into song. In the event of
such a phenomenon as a bright day, I think there must be quite a jubilee
of birds here, even as he sung who lies below:--
"The ousel-cock, so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill,
The throstle with his note so true,
The wren with little quill;
The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,
The plain-song cuckoo gray."
The church has been carefully restored inside, so that it is now in
excellent preservation, and Shakspeare lies buried under a broad, flat
stone in the chancel. I had full often read, and knew by heart, the
inscription on this stone; but somehow, when I came and stood over it,
and read it, it affected me as if there were an emanation from the grave
beneath. I have often wondered at that inscription, that a mind so
sensitive, that had thought so much, and expressed thought with such
startling power on all the mysteries of death, the grave, and the future
world, should have found nothing else to inscribe on his own grave but
this:--
Good Friend for Iesus SAKE forbare
To digg T-E Dust EncloAsed HERe
Blese be T-E Man T spares T-Es Stones
Y
And curst be He T moves my Bones
Y
It seems that the inscription has not been without its use, in averting
what the sensitive poet most dreaded; for it is recorded in one of the
books sold here, that some years ago, in digging a neighboring grave, a
careless sexton broke into the side of Shakspeare's tomb, and looking in
saw his bones, and could easily have carried away the skull had he not
been deterred by the imprecation.
There is a monument in the side of the wall, which has a bust of
Shakspeare upon it, said to be the most authentic likeness, and supposed
to have been taken by a cast from his face after death. This statement
was made to us by the guide who showed it, and he stated that Chantrey
had come to that conclusion by a minute examination of the face. He took
us into a room, where was an exact plaster cast of the bust, on which he
pointed out various little minutiae on which this idea was founded. The
two sides of the face are not alike; there is a falling in and
depression of the muscles on one side which does not exist on the other,
such as probably would never have occurred in a fancy bust, where the
effort always is to render the two sides of the face as much alike as
possible. There is more fulness about the lower part of the face than is
consistent with the theory of an idealized bust, but is perfectly
consistent with the probabilities of the time of life at which he died,
and perhaps with the effects of the disease of which he died.
All this I set down as it was related to me by our guide; it had a very
plausible and probable sound, and I was bent on believing, which is a
great matter in faith of all kinds.
It is something in favor of the supposition that this is an authentic
likeness, that it was erected in his own native town within seven years
of his death, among people, therefore, who must have preserved the
recollection of his personal appearance. After the manner of those times
it was originally painted, the hair and beard of an auburn color, the
eyes hazel, and the dress was represented as consisting of a scarlet
doublet, over which was a loose black gown without sleeves; all which
looks like an attempt to preserve an exact likeness. The inscription
upon it, also, seemed to show that there were some in the world by no
means unaware of who and what he was.
Next to the tomb of Shakspeare in the chancel is buried his favorite
daughter, over whom somebody has placed the following quaint
inscription:--
"Witty above her sex, but that's not all,
Wise to salvation was good Mistress Hall.
Something of Shakspeare was in that, but this
Wholly of him, with whom she is now in bliss;
Then, passenger, hast ne'er a tear,
To weep with her that wept with, all--
That wept, yet set herself to cheer
Them, up with comfort's cordial?
Her lore shall live, her mercy spread,
When thou hast ne'er a tear to shed."
This good Mistress Hall, it appears, was Shakspeare's favorite among his
three children. His son, Hamet, died at twelve years of age. His
daughter Judith, as appears from some curious document still extant,
could not write her own name, but signed with her mark; so that the
"wit" of the family must have concentrated itself in Mistress Hall. To
her, in his last will, which is still extant, Shakspeare bequeathed an
amount of houses, lands, plate, jewels, and other valuables, sufficient
to constitute quite a handsome estate. It would appear, from this, that
the poet deemed her not only "wise unto salvation," but wise in her day
and generation, thus intrusting her with the bulk of his worldly goods.
His wife, Ann Hathaway, is buried near by, under the same pavement. From
the slight notice taken of her in the poet's will, it would appear that
there was little love between them. He married her when he was but
eighteen; most likely she was a mere rustic beauty, entirely incapable
either of appreciating or adapting herself to that wide and wonderful
mind in its full development.
As to Mistress Hall, though the estate was carefully entailed, through
her, to heirs male through all generations, it was not her good fortune
to become the mother of a long line, for she had only one daughter, who
became Lady Barnard, and in whom, dying childless, the family became
extinct. Shakspeare, like Scott, seems to have had the desire to
perpetuate himself by founding a family with an estate, and the
coincidence in the result is striking. Genius must be its own monument.
After we had explored the church we went out to walk about the place. We
crossed the beautiful bridge over the Avon, and thought how lovely those
fields and meadows would look, if they only had sunshine to set them
out. Then we went to the town hall, where we met the mayor, who had
kindly called and offered to show us the place.
It seems, in 1768, that Garrick set himself to work in good earnest to
do honor to Shakspeare's memory, by getting up a public demonstration at
Stratford; and the world, through the talents of this actor, having
become alive and enthusiastic, liberal subscriptions were made by the
nobility and gentry, the town hall was handsomely repaired and adorned,
and a statue of Shakspeare, presented by Garrick, was placed in a niche
at one end. Then all the chief men and mighty men of the nation came and
testified their reverence for the poet, by having a general jubilee. A
great tent was spread on the banks of the Avon, where they made speeches
and drank wine, and wound up all with a great dance in the town hall;
and so the manes of Shakspeare were appeased, and his position settled
for all generations. The room in the town hall is a very handsome one,
and has pictures of Garrick, and the other notables who figured on that
occasion.
After that we were taken to see New Place. "And what is New Place?" you
say; "the house where Shakspeare lived?" Not exactly; but a house built
where his house was. This drawing is taken from an old print, and is
supposed to represent the house as Shakspeare fitted it up.
We went out into what was Shakspeare's garden, where we were shown his
mulberry--not the one that he planted though, but a veritable mulberry
planted on the same spot; and then we went back to our hotel very tired,
but having conscientiously performed every jot and tittle of the duty of
good pilgrims.
As we sat, in the drizzly evening, over our comfortable tea table, C----
ventured to intimate pretty decidedly that he considered the whole thing
a bore; whereat I thought I saw a sly twinkle around the eyes and mouth
of our most Christian and patient friend, Joseph Sturge. Mr. S.
laughingly told him that he thought it the greatest exercise of
Christian tolerance, that he should have trailed round in the mud with
us all day in our sightseeing, bearing with our unreasonable raptures.
He smiled, and said, quietly, "I must confess that I was a little
pleased that our friend Harriet was so zealous to see Shakspeare's
house, when it wasn't his house, and so earnest to get sprigs from his
mulberry, when it wasn't his mulberry." We were quite ready to allow the
foolishness of the thing, and join the laugh at our own expense.
As to our bed rooms, you must know that all the apartments in this house
are named after different plays of Shakspeare, the name being printed
conspicuously over each door; so that the choosing of our rooms made us
a little sport.
"What rooms will you have, gentlemen?" says the pretty chamber maid.
"Rooms," said Mr. S.; "why, what are there to have?"
"Well, there's Richard III., and there's Hamlet," says the girl.
"O, Hamlet, by all means," said I; "that was always my favorite. Can't
sleep in Richard III., we should have such bad dreams."
"For my part," said C----, "I want All's well that ends well."
"I think," said the chamber maid, hesitating, "the bed in Hamlet isn't
large enough for two. Richard III. is a very nice room, sir."
In fact, it became evident that we were foreordained to Richard; so we
resolved to embrace the modern historical view of this subject, which
will before long turn him out a saint, and not be afraid of the muster
roll of ghosts which Shakspeare represented as infesting his apartment.
Well, for a wonder, the next morning arose a genuine sunny, beautiful
day. Let the fact be recorded that such things do sometimes occur even
in England. C---- was mollified, and began to recant his ill-natured
heresies of the night before, and went so far as to walk, out of his own
proper motion, to Ann Hathaway's Cottage before breakfast--he being one
of the brethren described by Longfellow,
"Who is gifted with most miraculous powers
Of getting up at all sorts of hours;"
and therefore he came in to breakfast table with that serenity of
virtuous composure which generally attends those who have been out
enjoying the beauties of nature while their neighbors have been
ingloriously dozing.
The walk, he said, was beautiful; the cottage damp, musty, and fusty;
and a supposititious old bedstead, of the age of Queen Elizabeth, which
had been obtruded upon his notice because it _might_ have belonged to
Ann Hathaway's mother, received a special malediction. For my part, my
relic-hunting propensities were not in the slightest degree appeased,
but rather stimulated, by the investigations of the day before.
It seemed to me so singular that of such a man there should not remain
one accredited relic! Of Martin Luther, though he lived much earlier,
how many things remain! Of almost any distinguished character how much
more is known than of Shakspeare! There is not, so far as I can
discover, an authentic relic of any thing belonging to him. There are
very few anecdotes of his sayings or doings; no letters, no private
memoranda, that should let us into the secret of what he was personally
who has in turns personated all minds. The very perfection of his
dramatic talent has become an impenetrable veil: we can no more tell
from his writings what were his predominant tastes and habits than we
can discriminate among the variety of melodies what are the native notes
of the mocking bird. The only means left us for forming an opinion of
what he was personally are inferences of the most delicate nature from,
the slightest premises.
The common idea which has pervaded the world, of a joyous, roving,
somewhat unsettled, and dissipated character, would seem, from many
well-authenticated facts, to be incorrect. The gayeties and dissipations
of his life seem to have been confined to his very earliest days, and to
have been the exuberance of a most extraordinary vitality, bursting into
existence with such force and vivacity that it had not had time to
collect itself, and so come to self-knowledge and control. By many
accounts it would appear that the character he sustained in the last
years of his life was that of a judicious, common-sense sort of man; a
discreet, reputable, and religious householder.
The inscription on his tomb is worthy of remark, as indicating the
reputation he bore at the time: "_Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte
Maronem_" (In judgment a Nestor, in genius a Socrates, in art a
Virgil.)
The comparison of him in the first place to Nestor, proverbially famous
for practical judgment and virtue of life, next to Socrates, who was a
kind of Greek combination of Dr. Paley and Dr. Franklin, indicates a
very different impression of him from what would generally be expressed
of a poet, certainly what would not have been placed on the grave of an
eccentric, erratic will-o'-the-wisp genius, however distinguished.
Moreover, the pious author of good Mistress Hall's epitaph records the
fact of her being "wise to salvation," as a more especial point of
resemblance to her father than even her being "witty above her sex," and
expresses most confident hope of her being with him in bliss. The
Puritan tone of the epitaph, as well as the quality of the verse, gives
reason to suppose that it was not written by one who was seduced into a
tombstone lie by any superfluity of poetic sympathy.
The last will of Shakspeare, written by his own hand and still
preserved, shows several things of the man.