' I' -f-itiiii’’"' -ffl'li! I I n ■ " _ ' I® ii'^ <1 A':.-'’yl 1 iM Ky - ' I" The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its return to the library from which it was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft/ mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. To renew call Telephone Center, 333*8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN ,<*i' V* V. ^ c^X' y.- ' ■ >/: 't; i/- 'll'---/ ■ L161— 0-1096 rJI3' V ■;/;> r-y. .•/.•";• y,^ •■’' 'X, ■'.''\> • . ‘v -'•v/>aV 'W>' ^ -' '-■ /. ' ■•/• I • ' Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/shakespeareshomeOOwalt — I r C - 7 ^ ^ SHAKESPEARE’S / uC HOME AND RURAL LIFE. BY JAMES WALTER, MAJOR 4TH LANCASHIRE ARTILLERY VOLUNTEERS. SIIuBlralra^ 0f 50calities mh mmuiH <^tratf0rir-0:j00:-|^&00 ^Y THE Y THE tlELIOTYPE 'TROCESS. f ■ THE BEST IN THIS KIND ARE BUT SHADOWS ; AND THE WORST ARE NO WORSE, IF IMAGINATION AMEND THEM. Midsuftimer Nishfs Dream, Act V. Sc. I. Sonbon ; LONGMANS, GREEN, READER, AND DYER. 1874. \All rights reserved.^ LONDON : GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, PRINTERS, ST. John’s square. ^ f XX,?>3 Cuj/7 i I ^ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Vs ' \ Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-on-Avon, North Front, from C. Flower's Garden-terrace I General View of Stratford-on-Avon 3 Clopton Bridge . 5 Welford Mills . ib. Holy Trinity Church, from the Lock .... 7 The Avenue ........ ib. North 9 North-West ii South . 13 N ave. East . . . . . . . -IS Trinity Church — The Monument 17 The Chancel 19 Nave, West zi Old Cottages at Shottery 27 Avenue to Guy’s Cliff, near Warwick 29 Holy Trinity Church, South-West 31 Clifford Church and Parsonage 33 Churchyard ib. Miserere Seats in Chancel of Holy Trinity, by H. B. Clements 35 Sundry Sketches, by Colonel Peel Yates, Royal Artillery . 37 Shakespeare’s Birthplace in Henley Street, Stratford . 40 Mary Arden’s Cottage ib. Room in which Shakespeare was born, from Drawing by Edgar Flower .41 Kitchen in House in which Shakespeare was born, from Drawing by Edgar Flower ib. ■ j Guild Chapel Interior 42 y Chapel of Holy Guild, Schools, and Almshouses . . 43 ^ Wilmecote, Mary Arden’s Cottage ib. Chapel of Holy Guild, &c. (Back View), from Drawing by Edgar Flower 45 Four Views of Interiors of Holy Guild Schools, by H. B. Clements . 47 Kenilworth 48 Sundry Sketches, by G. J. Parr 49 New Place, Site of Shakespeare’s House and Gardens, Stratford, showing Excavations of Foundations . . 51 Sundry Sketches, by G. J. Parr 53 Charlecote, Seat of the Lucys, View of Court-yard . . 55 PAGE Charlecote, Great Hall 57 Library 59 River Front 61 Anne Hathaway’s Cottage, Shottery, Front View . . 62 Kitchen, from Drawing by Edgar Flower . . 63 Bedroom, from Drawing by Edgar Flower . . ib. From the Orchards 64 Back View ........ 65 Bidford Grange 66 Guy’s Cliff .......... ib. Baddesley Clinton, Manor House and Moat ... 67 Church, recently restored by E. J. Payne, of Bir- mingham 68 Manor House ib. Sundry Sketches, by G. J. Parr 69 Ditto ditto 74 Shakespeare Tavern at Shottery, Back View ... 81 Warwick, Leicester Monument, Beauchamp Chapel . . 82 Beauchamp Chapel . ...... 85 Charlecote, Knobbit Bridge, the Park .... 86 Gateway ......... ib. Shakespeare Hall, Rowington, in which Shakespeare is said to have written some of his Sonnets . . .91 Shottery, Old Cottages 96 Old Farm Buildings 97 Ditto ........ lb. Old Cottages 98 Warwick Castle, The Cedars . . . . . .117 Garden Scene 119 The Ferry 122 Gateway 124 Court-yard 126 Warwick Castle 128 Warwick, Leicester Hospital 130 The Priory ib. Warwick Castle, the Avon 156 The Mount ib. Portraits of Shakespeare 157 The Poet Gower’s Monument, St. Saviour’s, Southwark . 160 Shakespeare Family Tombs, photographed from the Graves in Holy Trinity Chancel 161 i4- ’* 4 »• IP t I = i ■ •If- -. ■ I l» » • -r ■'y' vV *• > -' - '*r». i » * 4- - .? #r . » ■T'' fi ' "7 4 s j V. N * 9 J \ \ * i •» f- tV ” ■ • Wm * ' '# »-* ' ■ ■-<-'7T«»w ,' ■ K, - 3S5;j| t / V . ^ , -'• .»-j^ ‘ i '■■. • ■ . i'_' • •> , . • -'*■ - *-' *iJb' •? *• »*»'-*5“i. L: ■ -■■'^- '**i";--^ ^-‘- iW' ■-'- "'V ’"'v -• -■“ ‘ -^. ••*?■ . -- „ 5 ^ ■ - 4 ' . T- '■- : ' . ->^~i.' i. r- ,v^ ¥■--': jr> r’^ ' ■"' . 7-V^ ■ '.TV. -‘3F. 7 ■^>4.'-'‘ . V ' ,1 '-V • 0*5 " ■_--V-i '’;v^ ,.>i!rv..” 7.-;^ v^.^. li- •.'■■ . .■_ • .,;• * T-; . / .: • • .V. » -VT~.- . . .V .ri-*? - -. K ■•* : • '#-:^ • r * E-; 4 ‘ -!fr > r" ■ ^ ■'♦ * r • * - ^ *■ .- s.t ‘* • .' 'U- V ■ ^ V/ . ; V- A - - -F LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. The Tempest, Act iv. Scene i. CONSTANT yearning for something free from doubt and speculation as to our great poet’s life and home is, in a word, the history and cause of the pages on which the reader’s eye rests. Shakespeare, the grandest of all writers outside the one great Holy Volume, has hitherto received more than a fair share of the would-be-wise doubter’s atten- tion. We are denied all but trivial details of a life which bequeathed to the world the mightiest intellec- tual achievements. We cannot look upon him through biographers or correspondence, or, indeed, any of the ordinary channels through which other lives are illus- trated. Let us go then into the streets of Stratford- on-Avon, into the highways and byways dear to him, and in the meadows, fields, and villages of his home, see the objects which must constantly have been before his eyes, and whose impress is reflected most vividly throughout his works. We have endeavoured to present to the reader faithful illustrations of objects familiarly known to him, to catch while yet there is time, correct pictorial representations of what remains of his day, and to place these before the reader, as a loving accompaniment to the study of the great author’s writings. He whose philosophy is deeper than Plato ; whose tenderness, Christian charity, and elo- quence for the poor, as golden as those of Chrysostom ; the “ myriad-minded,” because in him everybody finds himself reflected ; he who is like a steam-hammer, that can flatten tons of iron at a blow, and yet descend so gently as to crack a nut ; he whose wit is so consti- tuted that it can deal with, suggest, or answer the most ponderous of human questions, and yet can the next moment jest or pun upon the slightest subject, is known and understood best when, free from man’s miserable criticisms and carpings, at home in the dear Stratford-on-Avon he loved so well. It has been well said, by one of his own noble county, that every nation has its holy place, some spot made sacred by its associations with some great or pious soul, who has blessed the world by his life and labours. Even sober England boasts of, at least, one place, one Loretto shrine, to which thousands on thousands, not only of the children of her own fair land, but of every country in Europe, and from the shores of the New World especially, have wended their way ; if not with “san- dalled shoon and scallop shell,” yet in the spirit of love, of reverence and gratitude, they have journeyed to testify how perennial is the feeling which inspired the palmers and pilgrims of old ; and for ever, under every variety of worship, form, and fashion, men will pay homage where it is due. Our great dramatist is quite as much the heritage and boast of the English beyond the Atlantic as of the English at home. When Shakespeare wrote, the forefathers of the pre- sent generation of Americans were still living in their ancient homes, many of them ignorant, save by vague rumours, of the character and extent of the newly-discovered continent of which Spain claimed exclusive possession ; few or none had dreamt of visiting it in any other capacity than that of buccaneers ; and his fame was rising above all rivalry, if not yet established on its present pinnacle of supremacy, when the Pilgrim Fathers established a colony, from which plays, playwrights, and play-actors were banished. Of all our common inheritance of great traditions and glorious memories, nothing is now so familiar or so dear to Americans as Shake- speare’s name ; no monument of English antiquity so sacred in their eyes as his birthplace and his grave ; and neither England nor Germany has furnished more eager inquirers into his meaning, and analysts of his genius, than the United States. The people of America realize thoroughly the words of Ruskin as to Shakespeare’s plays : — “ T/iep are perfect because there is no care about cen- turies in them, but a life which all men recognize for the humafi life of all time ; and this is not because Shakespeare sought to give universal tritth, but because, painting honestly and completely from the men about B 2 Life of Shakcspeai'e. him, he painted that human nature which is constant enough : a rogue in the fifteenth century being, at heart, what a rogue is in the nineteenth, and 'was in the t'welfth, and an honest or a knightly man being m like manner, very similar to other such at any other time. A nd the 'work of this great idealist is, therefore, always tmiversal ; not because it is not portrait, but because it is complete portrait do'wn to the heart, 'which is the same in all ages ; and the 'work of the mean idealists is not uni'ocrsal, not because it is portrait, but because it is half portrait, of the outside, the manners and the dress, not of the heart!' Reader, believing as we do, that all the volumes yet written on Shakespeare do not furnish as much true, and therefore sound criticism, as these few words of Ruskin, we ask you to wander with us in the fields of his native Warwickshire, and linger about the spots hallowed as his familiar haunts and home, and there find the best guide to, and interpreter of, his mighty writings. The native town of Shakespeare is situated on a gentle rising ground on the right bank of the Avon, in the south-west corner of Warwickshire, eight miles from the county-town of Warwick, and about a hun- dred miles from London. The great road from the Metropolis, passing through Oxford to Stratford, and leading from thence to Shrewsbury, enters the town from the east, crossing the Avon by a noble bridge of fourteen arches, from which a beautiful view is ob- tained of Trinity Church, embosomed in trees,- and forming a most picturesque termination of the river reach. Where the bridge now stands, there was in ancient times a ford ; and from a combination of this word with the Saxon “ Straete,” or “ Stret,” signifying a street or road, the name of the town is derived. We would urge all lovers of Shakespeare to visit Stratford from Warwick, availing themselves of the old turnpike road, eschewing the railway. It is a delightful walk or drive. The charming undulations of the land, and the sylvan character of the whole journey, will repay the deviation. It is a thoroughly grand Warwick- shire panorama of ever-changing scenes, disclosing the marked characteristics of the noble old county. Be- sides, it is very joyous to speculate on the appearance of the country in Shakespeare’s time ; how often he must have rambled over the same ground, paused at the same places, admired the same views, treasured up some image of grace and loveliness, and carefully stored in the chambers of his rich and wonderful brain some picture of rural life, to be written down for the world’s gratification and joy. He must have felt a just and worthy pride as he looked on the fair face of his own noble county. The mere “ doer ” of Strat/ord may enter it by “ rail,” but the true Shakespearian will foot it from Warwick. Stratford appears to have been a place of im- portance as early as the eighth century ; and, accord- ing to Leland, a monastery was founded, shortly after the conversion of the Saxons to Christianity, on the site now occupied by Trinity Church. Till the lapse of a considerable period from the Conquest, the town subsisted as an appanage of the diocese of Worcester, and owed much of its prosperity to the favour ex- tended to it by successive bishops. These ecclesias- tical dignitaries seemed to have possessed a park at Stratford; for, in 1288, Gifford, Bishop of Worcester, complained of certain parties who had broken into this enclosure, and stolen his deer, and directed letters of excommunication to be issued against the delinquents. It would thus appear that deer-stealing was a failing of the people of Stratford at an era long anterior to the time of Shakespeare. At an early period, the town seems to have been invested with the privileges of a borough, and we find that Richard Coeur-de-Lion gave permission in 1197 to hold a weekly market ; but a regular charter of incorpora- tion was first granted by Edward VI. “ to the bailiff and burgesses of Stratford-on-Avon,” and this after- wards was amplified and extended by two subsequent Charters from James I. and Charles II. The most prominent historical incident connected with the town of Stratford is its occupation, in 1642-1643, during the great Civil War, by a party of Royalists, who were expelled by the Parliamentary forces under Lord Brooke ; but the latter were in their turn ejected shortly afterwards, and thereupon Queen Henrietta Maria, at the head of an army nearly five thousand strong, entered the town in triumph. She was joined by Prince Rupert with reinforcements, and took up her abode at the mansion of New Place, probably as being the best in the town ; and there for three weeks, during the summer of 1643, she held her court. Quitting Stratford, she proceeded thereafter to the plain of Kineton, near Edgehill, where she met the Ring, and proceeded with him from thence to Oxford. This little episode in its history is almost the only event which connects the town with political and military annals. The world’s William Shakespeare was the son of John Shakespeare and Mary Arden, and was born at Stratford-on-Avon, in April 1564; the day of his birth, as averred by tradition, being the 23rd of that month, or St. George’s day, the anniversary of the patron saint of England. His baptism is recorded three days afterwards in the parish register, preserved in Stratford Church, as follows: “1564, April 26, Gtdielmus,fiUus Johannes Shaksperc." (See p. 37.) John Shakespeare, the poet’s father, was the son of Richard Shakespeare, a farmer at Snitterfield, a Stratford-on-Avon — Holy Trinity Church. village about three miles from Stratford. The latter was a tenant of Robert Arden of Wilmecote, whose daughter, Mary, became, in I 557 , the wife of John Shakespeare. They had a large family, the baptisms of eight children being recorded in the Stratford register : 1558, September 15, Joan [Died in infancy]. 1562, December 2, Margaret [Died in the following year, 1563]. 1564, April 26, William. 1566, October 13, Gilbert [Was living at Stratford in 1609]. 1569, April 1 5, Joan [Married William Hart of Stratford, and is mentioned in Shakespeare’s will. She died in 1646]. 1571, September 28, Anne [Died in 1579]. 1574, March ii, Richard [Died at Stratford in 1613. Nothing is known of his history]. 1 580, May 3, Edmund [Became an actor, and died in London in December, 1607]. A truly great man needs no exalted descent. Shakespeare’s paternal ancestors were plain honest yeomen or husbandmen, and early as the fourteenth century families bearing the martial name of Shake- speare were settled in Warwickshire. A register of the guild of St. Anne of Knolle shows us, between the reigns of Henry VI. and Henry VIIL, or from 1460 to 1527, a Richard, a John, and a William Shakespeare ; and the same names are found in other records relating to the districts of Rowington and Wroxhall. It is probable that the dramatist’s family was an offshoot from one of these stocks. Through his mother, Shakespeare’s lineage was of a more aristocratic order. The Ardens were descended from an ancient family, connected, as appears from the identity of coat-armour, with John Arden, Esquire of the Body to Henry VII.; and who, as appears from his will, dated in 1526, had been honoured with visits from his sovereign. Robert Arden, Shakespeare’s maternal grandfather, was a “gentleman of worship,” and a landed proprietor of Wilmecote, in the Parish of Aston Cantlow, about three miles from Stratford. He was twice married ; but we have no account of his first wife, by whom he had a family of seven daughters ; Mary, the wife of John Shakespeare, being the youngest. His second partner was Agnes Hill, a widow with a family, who does not appear to have regarded her step-daughters with much affection, as is evidenced by her subsequent total omission of them in her will. Mary Arden, however, seems to have been a favourite child of her father, in so far as we may judge from the circumstance, that, along with her sister Alice, she was appointed sole executrix of his will, and received also the most valuable portion of the inheritance. The fortune which she thus brought to her husband consisted of an estate called Asbies, extending to fifty-four acres, with a residence on the property, two tenants’ houses and gardens ; also an interest in lands at Wilmecote and in two tenements at Snitterfield, and a sum of 6/. I3J. ihi money. Such a dower was, in the six- teenth century, no inconsiderable portion. A curiosity is naturally felt to know something personally of Mary Arden, the mother of so transcendent a genius as Shakespeare ; but here, as in all concerning him, we must be content with little. Oldys, however, tells us that she was beautiful ; and this we gladly believe. Ay, and more; she must have been, as George Tweddle expresses it, a right-womanly woman to produce so gentle-souled a son, and one so keenly appreciating true female loveliness. The Ardens had been proprietors of land in Aston Cantlow for more than a hundred years, and in the churchyard of St. John the Baptist at Aston, Mary Arden’s father was buried in the latter end of 1556 as his will directed. At the altar of that church, in the following year, it is more than probable Mary Arden gave her heart and hand to Maister John Shakespeare, “for the mutual society, help and comfort, which the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.” Her property has been valued at a hundred and ten pounds of the money of that period. Let not the luxurious habits of the present age lead us to smile at such a fortune. All the worldly goods (except his lands) belonging to her father, were, in the inventory attached to his will, valued at seventy-seven pounds, eleven shillings, and tenpence ; and these goods in- cluded numerous oxen, bullocks, kine, horses, sheep, besides wheat in the field and in the barn. Sir William Dugdale traces the Ardens back for some hundreds of years, up to the time of Edward the Confessor ; and sometimes they had been high sheriffs of the county, and sometimes they had been attainted for high treason. The grandfather of Mary Arden, groom of the chamber of Henry VI L, was nephew of Sir John Arden, squire of the body to the same sovereign. This same Sir John Arden was a son of Walter Arden and of Eleanor, the daughter of John Hampden of Buckinghamshire, There were thus the ties of a common blood between William Shakespeare and one of the most distinguished men of the next generation — John Hampden, who was a student in the Inner Temple when the poet died. This has been disputed ; but however this may be, it is quite evident that, both by his father’s side and by that of his mother, William Shakespeare was bred from that great and almost undefinable middle class, which in all ages has contributed so much to the wealth, intelligence, and virtue of England. Not that it matters much whether the blood of beggars or of Kaisers ran in his veins ; for genius is not confined to any class, any more than virtue is to a sect or a party. Shakespeare himself has beautifully taught us this great truth in the speech which he has put into the mouth of the King of France, when Bertram, the young and vain Count of Rousillon, rejects the B 2 4 Life of Shakespeare. fair and virtuous Helena, on the trumpery plea that she is “ a poor physician’s daughter” : — ’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the which I can build up. Strange is it, that our bloods, Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together. Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off In differences so mighty. If she be All that is virtuous, (save what thou dislik’st, A poor physician’s daughter,) thou dislik’st, Of virtue for the name : but do not so. From lowest place when virtuous things proceed. The place is dignified by the doer’s deed : Where great additions swell, and virtue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone Is good, without a name ; vileness is so. The property by what it is should go. Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair ; In these to nature she’s immediate heir ; And these breed honour : that is honour’s scorn. Which challenges itself as honour’s born. And is not like the sire. Honours thrive, When rather from our acts we them derive Than our fore-goers ; the mere word’s a slave. Debauch’d on every tomb ; on every grave A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be said ? If thou canst like this creature as a maid, I can create the rest : virtue, and she, Is her own dower ; honour, and wealth, from me. All’s Well that Ends Well, Act ii. Scene 3. John Shakespeare appears to have settled in Strat- ford about 1551, six years previous to his marriage. At this period and for many years afterwards, he was one of the most respectable inhabitants of Stratford. It is probable that he did not continue for any length of time to carry on the trade of a glover, but that he early devoted himself to agricultural pursuits, and to the various occupations which might enable him in a country town to turn his small landed property to the most profitable account. Rowe says that he was a “considerable dealer in wool,” and Aubrey tells us that he was a “butcher and it is quite possible that both those statements may be correct to this extent, that he sold different descriptions of produce raised upon his own land. In the year 1556 he brought an action against “ Henry Fyld,” for unjustly detaining from him a quantity of barley ; and in the year 1564 he sold to the corporation some timber — “a pec tym- bur.” In this latter year he is credited with the highest sum, with one exception, contributed by any burgess, not an alderman, to the relief of the poor. In the year 1579 we find the word “yoman ” attached to his name, and he is never designated as a glover, except upon that single occasion in the year 1556 to which we have already referred. Municipal distinctions soon accompanied the social respectability to which he attained. In the year 1557, or during the four or five succeeding years, he passed through the offices of an ale-taster (an officer com- missioned to look after the assize of ale, bread, and corn), a constable of the borough an “ affeeror,” (an officer whose duty it was to determine the amount of fines to be imposed for offences to which no express penalty was attached by statute), and a chamberlain. In the year 1565 he was elected an alderman ; and from Michaelmas, 1 568, to Michaelmas, 1 569, he filled the office of high-bailiff, or head of the corporation. From the month of September, 1571, to the month of September, 1572, he acted as chief-alderman; and here closes the list of the local honours to which he attained. John Shakespeare must have been one of those men, not uncommon in any age, whose worldly means bear no adequate proportion to their taste for lavish expenditure, and their ambition to figure in a higher social position than that in which, through the chances of life, they had originally been placed. As far as we can see, the substance of his property con- sisted of the fifty-six acres of land called Ashbies, which he had acquired through his wife ; and this small holding must have afforded but a very insuf- ficient foundation for maintaining the dignity of a public office, and the cost of a correspondingly expen- sive domestic establishment. At all events, he was soon exposed to one of the most painful visitations of fortune ; and the antiquaries are enabled to track his footsteps through the usual unsparing processes of the law, to debt, mortgages, and not improbably to flight or imprisonment. The first apparent intimation of his embarrassments meets us at the commencement of the year 1578. At a hall of the corporation, held in the month of January of that year, a resolution was passed, to the effect that each of the aldermen should pay 6 s. Sd. for the maintenance or equipment of certain officers, with the exception of “ Mr. Shaxpeare ” and another mem- ber of the court, who were to be liable to a charge of only y. 4d. and Si', respectively. In the month of November of the same year he was exempted from an order providing that each alderman should pay 4d. a week towards the relief of the poor ; and in an account of sums levied on the inhabitants of Stratford in the month of March, 1579, purchase of armour and defensive weapons, his name is found among the defaulters. Again, the will of a baker, named Roger Sadler, which is dated the 14th of November, 1578, contains a list of his debtors, and in that list two people are mentioned as owing him 5/. “ for the debte of Mr. John Shaksper.” There are other and more decisive proofs of the straits to which he was ultimately reduced. In the spring of 1578 John and Mary Shakespeare mort- gaged their property of Ashbies to her brother-in-law, Edmund Lamberl, for the sum of 40/. In the year 1579 we find them selling to Robert Webbe their share in a property at Snitterfield, for the small 5 Stratford-on-Avon — Holy Trinity Chtirch. amount of 4/. ; and in the following year they parted with her reversionary interest in the same property for another sum of 40/. We have evidence of another kind to show that John Shakespeare did not escape those personal penalties which usually attach to troubled fortunes. A writ of distraint was issued against him, and the return made to it, on the 19th of January, 1586, was that he had no goods on which distraint could be levied ; and in the month of March, 1587, we are told of his producing a writ of habeas corpus — a sufficient proof, it is held, that he was at the time suffering imprisonment for debt. We meet his name again, in a curious document of the d t e of 25th September, 1592. On that day Sir Thomas Lucy, and other commissioners, who had been appointed to inquire and report respecting “ such recusants as have been heretofore presented for not coming monthly to the church,” signed a return, in which the names of various “ recusants ” are given, and among them those of “Mr. John Shackespere,” and of eight others, with this comment : — “ It is said that these last nine come not to church for fear of process for debt.” These accumulated embarrassments naturally ended in the cessation of John Shakespeare’s connexion with the corporation of Stratford. He first began to absent himself from their meetings at the commencement of the year 1577, and he only rarely attended them after that period. On the 31st of August, 1586, he was deprived of his alderman’s gown, on the ground that “ he doth not come to the halls when they be warned, nor hath not done of long time.” We are aware that some of the poet’s biographers have endeavoured to show that a portion of the details we have just cited may be accounted for upon the supposition that John Shakespeare did not perma- nently reside in Stratford, but removed occasionally to one or other of his small farms, and thus became exempt from the payment of the full amount of the borough charges. But this conjecture possesses no internal probability, and it is almost directly opposed to unquestionable documentary evidence, from which we learn that, when he signed the deed for the sale of his wife’s property, in the year 1579, he was known as “John Shackspere, of Stratford-upon-Avon and again, that he was summoned on a jury of the Strat- ford Court of Record in the year 1586, the year in which he was deprived of his alderman’s gown. There are, however, some other circumstances which go to create a presumption that his position was never so absolutely desperate as the above entries, taken by themselves, would naturally lead us to infer. He seems never to have lost his freehold property in Henley Street, which afterwards descended to his son ; and what is, perhaps, still more remarkable, he appears more than once as a litigant in the local court at the very time when we should have supposed that his means of obtaining the very necessaries of life must have been utterly exhausted. It is not unlikely, therefore, that a portion of the suspicious incidents in which he figures may have arisen from some peculiarity in his position, or from some special fractiousness in his own temper. But we still enter- tain no doubt of the meaning of some of the sacrifices to which he was compelled to submit. He obtains bread upon the security of others ; he mortgages what was perhaps his mo.st valuable property ; he parts with the reversionary rights of his family ; and it is impossible for us not to read in such incidents the outlines of one of the painful dramas of humble life. How wide are the sympathies evoked by genius, and how long is the trail of its glory ! How little these poor people could have dreamt in their lifetime of the restless curiosity which was to pursue their memories more than two centuries after the grave had enfolded their remains in its unbroken silence ! There is still, however, a wide blank in our knowledge of John and Mary Shakespeare. He is only known to us by the partial brightness, or the dark shadow, which his name casts over old, passionless records. The mother of the poet must naturally form for us an object of still more eager interest. We should all be glad to know how far the intellect or the character of the young phenomenon was likely to have been influenced by her fine sense or her loving tenderness ; but in the utter obscurity in which she has disap- peared, we feel that it would be vain for us to indulge this curiosity. Not a word, or a look, or a gesture of hers, pierces the night of ages to light up for a moment her image. We have no further facts of any moment to record with respect to this couple, except that John Shake- speare was buried in Stratford on the 8th of Sep- tember, 1601, and that the remains of his wife were laid, as we may assume, by his side, on the 9th of September, 1608. We may take it for granted that, with the help of their illustrious son, they were enabled to pass tranquilly the later evening of their days. Many readers will perhaps be surprised to learn that neither of them could write ; but there is no room for any reasonable doubt upon this point. A number of documents are still extant which John Shakespeare signed with his mark ; and in the only instance in which we meet with the signature of his wife, it is made in the same form. This was, how- ever, no unusual circumstance among people of their position in the days of Queen Elizabeth. Out of nineteen aldermen and burgesses of Stratford who signed a deed in the year 1565, not less than thirteen — among whom were the bailiff, the chief alderman, and John Shakespeare — were unable to attach their names to it in their own handwriting. 6 Life of Shakespeare. Kenny has admirably noted the series of petty fatalities which seem to have conspired to remove the great author, as far as possible, beyond the reach of our direct and definite knowledge. At various points we think we are about to touch him, and then some strange object intervenes, and, like a darkness flitting through the air, casts his image into remote and in- distinct shadow. The impersonality of his dramatic genius seems to follow him in his life. Now, we come across his name in the writings of some contemporary, and naturally expect that its introduction will lead to some notice of his character ; but the account is with- held, as if it could only refer to some topic which was already universally known, or in which no human being could feel the most passing interest. At another moment, we meet with a direct statement which, at first sight, seems likely to explain some incident in his career, or some passage in his writings ; but, on inquiry, we perceive that it relates to some doubtful or unknown personage, or else that it is couched in language so obscure, that it can convey no certain in- formation of any kind ; and thus it not unfrequently happens, that the very light we hoped had arisen for our guidance, hardly serves any other purpose than to disclose to us some new problem as perplexing, per- haps, in its way, as any for which we had previously in vain endeavoured to find a solution. It certainly is not from a want of biographers or of critics, that any mystery still hangs over Shakespeare’s memory. No other writer, perhaps, that ever lived, has been the object of half so much minute and patient and varied research. The very multiplicity, combined with the incompleteness, of the details which the antiquaries have discovered, has, in no small degree, contributed to complicate and to darken the very elements upon which any judgment we may form of him must be founded. Englishmen, however, owed it to the fame of their wonderful poet that they should endeavour to shed every accessible light on his life and his labours ; and we have all some reason to feel grateful to the men who have, with such toil, and with such pro- portionately infinitesimal results, devoted themselves to this undertaking. It seems to be very generally supposed that Shake- speare displayed some extraordinary indifference to literary fame, by neglecting to supervise the pub- lication of his own dramas. But that opinion, taken literally, cannot be said to rest upon any sufficient foundation. We believe that Shakespeare, in this respect, only conformed to the almost universal prac- tice of his age. The works of popular dramatists were then written solely that they might be acted, and never, apparently, with a view to their being read. They were sold to theatrical companies, whose inte- rest it was to keep them unpublished as long as they continued to attract large audiences. The authors themselves seem to have readily acquiesced in this arrangement. They did not desire to attain notoriety by committing their works to the press, either because they conceived that a sort of discredit attached to any professional connexion with the stage, or because they felt that a drama would lose its main effect by being deprived of the accompaniments of theatrical repre- sentation. When they did publish their works, they appear to have published them for the purpose of anticipating the issue of mutilated and piratical copies, or for the purpose of doing justice to their own reputations, after such copies had actually been printed. Sir Thomas Bodley, who began to form the great collection of books which still bears his name, towards the close of the sixteenth century, calls plays “ rifle raffes,” and declares “ they shall never come into my library.” It is a striking proof of the change of tastes and customs that some of the most costly volumes in the great Bodleian Library of the present day are the very works, as published in his own time, which its founder treated wfith such special contempt. There is one division, at least, of Shakesperian literature through which runs a broad track of light. The dramas themselves form a subject of study which admits of no other controversies than those to which the diversities of our own tastes and capacities may give rise. Shakespeare’s fame, however, even in Eng- land, has not been by any means of a uniform and steady growth. His genius was but partially recog- nized by his contemporaries ; and among the two or three generations which followed, we find that the spread of the Puritanical spirit, the agitations of the great Civil War, and, finally, the ascendency of frivolous foreign tastes in the days of the Stuart Restoration, contributed to throw his name into dark or doubtful eclipse. For a period of one hundred years, his works were not much read ; and throughout a portion of that time, and even down to a much later date, several of his latest dramas only held possession of the stage in the corrupted versions of feeble or irreverent hands. It was not until about the middle of the last century that the national admiration of our great poet, in any large sense of the word, began to arise. Our enthusiasm was soon stimulated by the teachings and the example of the critics and scholars of Germany. Lessing was, perhaps, the first man that formed and proclaimed what the most competent judges would now regard as an adequate conception of the profound truth and the astonishing range of Shakespeare’s genius ; and almost all the most eminent literary men of his country have since zealously con- tinued the work which he began. A corresponding school of Shakesperian critics soon appeared in Eng- land ; but we have never yet, as a nation, fully shared the intoxication of the German idolatry of our own 7 Stratford- on- A von — . great dramatist. Our American kinsmen, to their honour be it said, have, with their naturally keener discernment, gone greatly “ahead” of us in all that relates to the great poet of the world. The less demonstrative form of our admifation arises mainly, no doubt, from our naturally more sober and more reserved temperament ; but it is also, perhaps, in some measure to be traced to the specially practical and laborious nature of the task which we have had to perform. Shakesperian criticism among us fell almost exclusively into the hands of editors, commentators, and antiquaries. All the obscure literature of a whole age had to be explored for the purpose of fixing the poet’s text, explaining his allusions, and ascertaining the sources from which he derived his stories. The German mind, in its study of Shakespeare, had no such preliminary labour to encounter ; and, freed from this restraining influence, it rushed, with its accus- tomed enthusiasm, into that region of boundless speculation to which it seemed to have been, from its very position, immediately invited. We are, however, becoming awakened to the greatness of our master spirit. For one devotee at the shrine existing fifty years since, there are now five hundred ! “ Vires acquirit eundo!” Who shall number them half a century hence ! With these few details of his family, let us draw near the temple sacred to his birth, death, and memory. The approach to the great shrine of the Holy Trinity is all in unison with the feelings of devotion and awe pos- sessing one’s soul, as borne on to the hallowed edifice doubly sanctified as the sacred depository of all that was earthly in the great limner. The road from which you first get sight of the spire among great elm-trees, with the rooks cawing in their town of homes, built conscious ofentire safety among the sacred branches, is awide road with gentle curves, and well cared for. Reverent hearts and zealous hands have done well in keeping all the surroundings wide in good taste. The grand old pile discloses itself bit by bit, though with all the poetical strength and sweetness such as the most zealous de- votees of the immortal bard can desire. Here we are in presence of the holy temple in which he was “received into the congregation of Christ’s flock, and signed with the sign of the cross, in token that hereafter he should not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under His banner against sin, the world, and the devil, and to continue Christ’s faithful soldier and servant unto his life’s end.” Yes, here we are in the very holy place in which he oft besought his Heavenly Father’s help and aid, and under whose shadow he at length laid him down to rest. Here, through this very portal, tenderly was the infant borne in swaddling clothes by his nurse, the envied mother and father, utterly unconscious that their offspring should thereafter move the world with Holy Trinity Church. power to no other mortal given, accompanying the precious babe, for the first time, to be offered to his Maker. This same pathway ! how familiar to him as on each Sabbath morn he attended the holy temple and made public confession of his shortcomings, and offered up his prayers and intercessions to the Great Being whose beneficence and mercy were ever before him ! Yes, indeed thou, venerable Trinity Church, art more than human fancy can paint. Thy archi- tectural beauty is great, whilst in thy envious charge of the sacred dust thou art the greatest of all reli- gious shrines in the world. In poetic beauty, apart from its own peerless associations, to our eye there are few temples of God in our land more externally beauteous than this blessed Trinity of Stratford-on- Avon. There have been loving and liberal hands protective of its immediate closing in. It is well that Avon Bank, the home of Charles Flower, a true Shakespearian, always foremost to promote improve- ment having Shakespeare’s memory as the object, should allow no owner of an inch between it and Trinity’s God’s Acre. He will tenderly keep pro- tective ward and watch while living, and, in all pro- bability, when summoned away, will cause yet unborn generations affectionately to cherish his name as the guardian who protected and prevented desecration by building on the lovely spot fallen to his lot so close, to the hallowed dust. May Avon Bank long remain a beauteous garden adjoining the sacred fane, adding, as now, to the loyeliness of the scene ! Reader, you must go up to this house of God through the lime avenue leading to the northern en- trance. Peace to the ashes of him who planted these trees ! We have endeavoured to have this lovely scene brought home to you in one of the Illustrations of this volume. It is a surpassingly beautiful approach, worthy in itself a pilgrimage to Stratford. The existing lime-trees are believed to have succeeded a similar avenue flourishing in Shakespeare’s day. As the branches meet and closely interlace each other, and with their impervious foliage exclude the rays of the sun, they seem, as it were, to encurtain the bed of death. We once walked up that avenue on a Sabbath morn in company with Ralph Waldo Emerson, the great American Essayist, to join with him in worship in the chancel, close to the grave of the great seer ; and how did Emerson’s burning, unsurpassable words force themselves upon us ! “What king has he not taught state, as Talma taught Napoleon ? “ What maiden has not found him finer than her delicacy ? “ What lover has he not outloved ? “ What sage has he not outseen ? “ What gentleman has he not instructed In the rudeness of his behaviour ?” 8 Life of Shakespeare. We know of no churchyard more beautifully kept than is Stratford. Blessings on all who have helped this consummation. A love of floral memento seems part and parcel of the good people’s nature, and to have become synonymous with the great name they rightly boast of. Flowers are scattered hither and thither in greatest profusion ; and no matter what the season, Trinity’s God’s Acre is sure to find plenty of choice blooms to keep alive memories of the departed. The heart must be divested of all feelings of things at once sacred and beautiful that can approach this Church of the Holy Trinity, unmoved by thoughts too deep and too high for expression. Here, indeed, is a rare combination of objects and associations to charm, elevate, and solemnize the soul. The eye is first delighted by the picturesque. The avenue under whose proud flagway lie that which no following spring revives, “the ashes of the urn;” whilst overhead interlace in the gothic arch of beauty, the entwining branches, and lovely green leaves of the graceful lime- trees. On either side “ the forefathers of the hamlet sleep.” Towards the river the sable-suited crows build in the tall old trees, and sweep, croaking about on heavy wing, fit tenants of the scene ; the nightingale’s delightful note at eve is heard ; the little small birds have made in the “jutty, frieze, coigne of vantage, their pendant bed and procreant cradle.” But not the music of the grove, the beauty of the flowers, all the features of the landscape, or the solemn temple that stands in grey majesty before the visitor, ean impress him with that sentiment of awe and reverence which must arise as he contemplates the fact, that here verily lies the awful dust of the man whose genius out- stripped time and “ exhausted worlds.” In the lovely churchyard of Stratford the visitor will find flowers decorating the graves at all seasons. Here indeed one feels with Ward Beecher that it is matter of gratitude that this finest gift of Providence is the most profusely given. Flowers cannot be monopo- lized. The poor have them with the rich. It does not require an education to love and appreciate them : and, as they are messengers of affection, tokens of remem- brance, and presents of beauty, of universal acceptance, it is pleasant to think that all men recognize a brief brotherhood in them. The poorest child can proffer them to the richest. A hundred persons turned together into a meadow full of flowers would be drawn together in a transient brotherhood. It is affecting to see how serviceable flowers often are to the necessities of the poor. If they bring their little floral gift to you, it cannot but touch the heart to think that their grateful affection longed to express itself as much as our own. The poor can give but little, and do but little. Were it not for flowers they w'ould be shut out from those exquisite pleasures which spring from such gifts. Who can ever take one from a child, or from the poor, without thanking God in their behalf for flowers ! And then, when death enters a poor man’s house ! It may be, the child was the only creature that loved the unbefriended father — really loved him — loved him utterly. Or it may be, it is an only son, and his mother a widow, who, in all his sickness, felt the limitation of her poverty for her darling’s sake as she never had for her own, and did what she could, but not what she would had there been wealth. The coffin is elm, and of the least costly kind. The un- dertaker supplied it with a jerk of indifference and haste, and would have money payment ere it quitted the shop. The room is small. The attendant neigh- bours are few. The shroud is coarse. Oh! the darling child was fit for whatever was most excellent, and the heart aches to do for him whatever could be done that should sj^eak love. It takes money for fine linen ; money for costly sepulture ; but flowers, thank God, the poorest may have. So, put white buds in her hair, and myrtle and rosemary and half-blown roses on her breast. If it be spring, a few white violets will do ; and there is hardly a month that will not give us something for this hallowed purpose. Vainly have we sought for tombstone records of men who trod this God’s Acre with our great poet, and worshipjDed with him in the glorious temple it surrounds. The good words in behalf of the fellow- parishioners of his very day and hour have crumbled away, and we must be content with such as on many pilgrimages we have found of nearest approximate date. Some of these latter have now become so ingrown with moss that it was almost impossible to decipher the inscriptions ; however, we succeeded in transcribing some of the quaint epitaphs which exist here as memorials of the dead of Stratford. Here is that of “ Thomas Mills.” What a good man he must have been to deserve such a testimonial 1 Or are epitaphs as unreliable on the humble gravestones of Stratford churchyard, as they are upon more pre- tentious sculptured monuments } — Here Lyeth the body of Mr. Thomas Mills, who departed this life the fourth day of October, A.D. 1694, in the 77th year of his age. To speake his praises every one Would require a spacious stone — Those can the best encomiums give Who best did know how he did live ; And he that says ye least he can. Will say. Here lithe an honest man. Near this was the grave of Elizabeth Morris, on whose headstone is the following : — Here lyeth the body of Elizabeth, the wife of John Morris, of Shottery, who departed this life June ye Sth, Anno Horn. 1700. Aged 57. Behold, All Yow that Pas me By, As Yow are now so once was 1 ; And as 1 am so must Yow Bee, Therefore Prepare to Follow Mee. 9 Stratford-on-Avon — Holy Trinity Church. Upon a flagstone lying on the walk was this : — Here lyeth the body of Anne, formerly the wife of Robert Wotten, Barber Chirurgion, but afterward married to Christopher Dale, Yeoman, who erected this stone to her memory. She died May ye 22, 1726, in the 80th year of her age. Good Christopher Dale evidently intended it to be distinctly understood that it was the “ yeoman ” and not the “ barber chirurgion ” who was so mindful of the memory of Mistress Anne. The next quaint epitaph was upon an old head- stone, crumbling rapidly to decay : — Heare Lieth the Body of Mary Hands, Widow, who Departd. this Life Aprill ye — th. Anno Domony 1699, aged 87 years. Heare Lieth the Body of Abigaill, the wife of George Hands, Sener, who departed this Life May ye 30, Ann. Dom. 1699, aged 37 years. Death creeps Abought on hard. And Steals Abroad on seen ; Hur darts are Suding and her arous keen. Her Stroks are deadly, come they soon or late — When, being Strock Repentance is to late ; Death is a minute full of Suden sorrow. Then live to-day as thou mayest dy tomarruo. Nothing can be more natural to bereaved Christians than to feel a veneration for the ground in which, as precious seed, they have “ sown in corruption ” those that shall ere long “be raised in incorruption and here it is we “ look on men as autumn leaves,” and “scarce believe we still survive.” This God’s Acre of Stratford is truly one of those sequestered spots where “ the silent shade, the calm retreat,” invite to the contemplation of death and eternity. It is to be deplored that many tokens of affectionate regret and esteem have become things of the past. The present age, with its revolutionary tendencies, bids fair to sweep away all touching symbols remain- ing, however dearly prized ; confronting therewith cold stern reality, plain unpoetical opinion, backed by the ever-occurring “ why ” and “ wherefore.” As the subject of all rustic funeral observances is meeting with sympathy, it is well to revert to the feelings of some of our poets, breathed through their works, recognizing their prevalency — at the time they wrote — of the customs we hope to see revived. In the old poem, “ Corydon’s doleful knell,” a lover thus plaintively records his affection by his loving intentions : — A garland shall be framed. By art and nature’s skill, Of sundry-colour’d flowers. In token of good-will. I’ll deck her tomb with flowers. The rarest ever seen ; And with my tears as showers, I’ll keepe them fresh and green. Pope thus beautifully expresses the custom : — Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring. Let nymphs and sylvans cypress garlands bring. Winter, Pastoral iv. In 1790, it was the usual custom in many parts of England, to carry a garland of flowers before the corpse of a young and unmarried female. A chaplet of white flowers was borne before the corpse by a young girl, nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and was afterwards hung up in the church over the ac- customed seat of the deceased. There were also love garlands, consisting of various flowers selected by the giver, and arranged to please the eye of the favoured maiden or youth. Our pastoral poetry contains many allusions to this subject. Such as the following : — I’ll make a strawy garland. I’ll make it wondrous fine. With roses, lilies, daisies. I’ll mix the eglantine. And I’ll present it to my love when he returns from sea, For I love my love, because I know my love loves me. These chaplets were sometimes made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of them were gene- rally a pair of white gloves. They were intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she has received in heaven : — To her sweet mem’ry flow’ry garlands strung. O’er her now empty seat aloft were hung, With wicker rods we fenced her tomb around. To ward from man and beast the hallow’d ground. Gay’s Dirge, Pastoral v. The custom of decorating graves, though once generally prevalent, is happily reviving. “ Osiers were carefully bent over them, to keep the turf un- injured, and about them were planted evergreens and flowers. ‘We adorn their graves,’ says Evelyn, in his ‘Sylva,’ ‘with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scripture to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in dishonour, rise again in glory.’ The white rose was sometimes planted at the grave of a virgin as an emblem of innocence and purity ; while the red rose was occasionally used in token of those noted for benevolence. But roses in general were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, ‘ where the maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose bushes.’ And Camden likewise remarks in his ‘ Britannia,’ ‘ Here is also a certain custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, espe- cially by the young men and maids who have lost their loves, so that this churchyard is now full of them.” Rose-bushes may now occasionally be seen in some of our village churchyards ; but I do not think the old custom regarding their being exclusively C Life of Shakespeai'e. lO devoted to those “who have lost their loves,” is now considered ; as instances can be given, in which aged parents and relatives have been thus honoured. Great care is now generally bestowed in adorning the graves of children. The loving hand of a fond mother may be distinctly traced in their adornment, showing the lingering affection to the little one now in heaven. Many of the little mounds are made flat upon the top — the sides backed with turf — upon which pretty and simple flowers are grown, bordered with mignonette, &c., with, perhaps, a shell placed at head and foot, making quite a pretty and fragrant scene, recalling to mind Shakespeare’s beautiful expres- sion — And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring. Hamlet, Act v. Scene i. The cypress-tree, yew, and willow have long borne melancholy associations with them as emblems of profound sorrow. It was the custom of the Romans to put up some sign which betokened that the house was in mourning. “ This was done by fixing branches of cypress or pitch-tree near the entrance, neither of which trees being once cut down ever revive, and have on that account been thought proper emblems of a funeral.” It has been said that the cypress and yew were formerly only planted or strewn over the graves of those persons who had been particularly unhappy in their loves or lives ; and in poems by Stanley (pub. 1651) occurs the following: — Yet strew Upon my dismall grave. Such offerings as you have. Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ; For kinder flowers can take no birth Or growth from such unhappy earth. But these trees were not always planted as denoting unhappiness in the lives of those commemorated, but, as now, according to fancy. Many of our poets treat of the yew and cypress, and mostly with sadness. Ogilvie speaks of “ Sorrow’s cypress bough,” and Carter of “Yon dark grove of mournful yews.” Mickle observes the “ weeping yews and in a pastoral ballad by Rowe, a despairing shepherd sighs thus : — If, while my hard fate I sustain. In her breast any pity is found, Let her come with the nymphs of the plain. And see me laid low in the ground ; The last humble boon that I crave. Is to .shade me with cypress and yew ; And when she looks down on my grave. Let her own that her shepherd was true. Colin's Complaint. The yew is mentioned by Kirke White in mournful tones as by many other writers. The willow is used as a refrain by some of our old writers, to give by its saddening memories a mournful tendency to the sub- ject. Shakespeare’s Desdemona sings of the willow garland, and the old song from which it is said Shakespeare’s was taken, must be noted. The last verse runs thus : — Farewell, faire false-hearted ; plaints end with my breath ! O willow, willow, willow ! Thou dost loath me, I love thee, thou cause of my death. O willow, willow, willow ! O willow, willow, willow ! Sing, O the green willow shall be my garland. Othello, Act iv. Scene 3. One of the most beautiful customs paid as a loving tribute to the dead, is that of strewing flowers upon their graves. It was a Roman usage, and many of our poets show their appreciation of the observance by the tender manner in which the subject is always treated by them. Shakespeare in “ Cymbeline ” gives the kind of flowers fitting for the occasion : — Here’s a few flowers : but about midnight, more : The herbs that have on them cold dew 0’ the night Are stre wings fitt’st for graves. — Upon their faces : You were as flowers, now wither’d ; even so These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. Act iv. Scene 2. In “ Hamlet,” Ophelia plaintively sings : — ' White his shroud as the mountain snow. Larded all with sweet flowers : Which bewept to the grave did go. With true-love showers. Act iv. Scene 5. This more particularly refers to the once familiar custom of strewing flowers upon the bed on which the corpse was laid. This custom was observed, and may be now, in Glamorganshire. And in “Cymbeline — With fairest flowers. Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I’ll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower, that’s like thy face, pale primrose ; nor The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten’d not thy breath. Act iv. Scene 2. Herrick, the true poet, says : — May all shie maids at wonted hours Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers ! May virgins, when they come to mourn. Make incense burn Upon thine altar ! then return And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. Dirge of fephtha. And again : — And as we singe thy dirge, we will The daffodill And other flowers lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone. The herb rosemarjq was universally in request as a funeral emblem, it being occasionally used to strew inside the coffin, as well as upon the grave. Stratford-on- A von — . To show their love, the neighbours far and near, Follow’d with wistful look the damsel’s bier. Sprigg’d rosemary the lads and lasses bore, While dismally the parson walk’d before. Upon the grave the rosemary they threw. The daisie, butter flow’r,and endive blue. Gay, The Shepherd’s Week. Pastoral v. The Dir/^e. This poet also propounds a riddle, to which “ rose- mary ” is the answer What flower is that which royal honour craves, Adjoin the Virgin, and His strewn on graves? Pastoral I. The Squabble. Kirke White has a poem “To the herb Rosemary,” in which he remarks : — Come funeral flower ! who lov’st to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb. And throw across the desert gloom, A sweet decaying smell. .u. ^ .U* "Tt* *7V* ‘TT W ^ Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o’er my ashes shed. Rosemary was also considered influential in making love,* was worn at weddings, and sometimes hung before the doors of houses as a charm against the plague and evil spirits, and used as a token of remem- brance.* Many of our poets allude to this herb in their works. The custom of strewing flowers on graves is again coming into vogue. Flowers were at one time placed in the coffins of the dead. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing “The fair and happy milkmaid,” observes, “Thus lives she, and all her care is that she may die in the spring- time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her winding- sheet.” It is now not unusual to dispense with that part of the funeral ceremony where earth is dropped upon the coffin. “ Ashes to ashes,” is not observed in its literal form, but flowers are dropped upon the coffin instead. A very pretty tribute ! It was formerly the custom in the North, and else- where, for the mourners attending a funeral to sing some mournful dirge, while accompanying the body of the departed to its last long home, and also over the grave. This was a very affecting rite. Singing will sometimes strike a sympathetic chord and appeal straight to the heart, even where a powerful sermon or long oration will take no effect. The simplest rite is generally the most powerful in its application. Ela- borate ceremonies appeal to the eye ; — the heart is left untouched, the ceremonies becoming by use tedious and without avail. It is the custom in some of our more rural counties, at the burial of a ‘ And hence some reverend men approve Of rosemary in making love. Butler, Hudibras, Pt. ii. C. i. ® Ophelia. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Hamlet, Act iv. Scene 5. Holy Trinity Church. 1 1 child, for the corpse to be borne to the grave by four young damsels, two on each side of the coffin, two white handkerchiefs being placed underneath the coffin, by which the maidens carried the little burden. The situation of Holy Trinity, the parish church of Stratford, is singularly beautiful, surrounded as it is with great elm-trees, and the river Avon flowing by, close within sound of the weir. It is very, very pleasant to think of the great bard resting here side by side with his wife, and his favourite daughter and her husband. We can never be sad in contemplating their graves. His was a lot which any one might envy — to be laid with those in death whom they loved dearest in life. The grandly venerable pile stands close to the Avon, at the south-east extremity of the town ; and between the church and the river is a fine terrace, planted with large elm-trees, whose boughs immediately overhang the stream as it flows placidly along. No calmer or more congenial spot could be desired by a poet as his last resting-place ; and amid such surroundings our great dramatist reposes in the chancel, close to the river, where, if any sounds reach the dead, he might hear the noise of its weir. The building itself is a fine cruciform structure, larger than the wonted dimen- sions of a parish church, and with its venerable grey walls presents a fine specimen of Perpendicular Gothic, the architecture which prevailed in England in the latter half of the fourteenth and early portion of the fifteenth century. The central tower, however, belongs to the Norman period, and is of much more ancient date. In Shakespeare’s time it was sur- mounted by a wooden spire forty-two feet in height ; but this was taken down in 1763, and the present graceful spire of Warwickshire stone erected in the following year. The internal structure is fully com- mensurate in dignity with the exterior. At the eastern extremity of the north aisle is a chapel origi- nally dedicated to the Virgin, but now occupied chiefly by the monuments of the Clopton family, whose manor and mansion-house of Clopton are situated about a mile to the north of Stratford, on the road to Henley-in- Arden. Since first seeing Stratford churchyard, we have been impressed with an idea that it is more up to the mark of inspiration of Gray’s “ Elegy ” than even that of Stoke Pogis. Certain it is that every line of the suggestive serious thought and eminently elevating character of that perfect composition, is presented to the mind here on Avon’s bank. How tenderly does it appeal alike to the boyish fancy and the maturer judgment! As poetry, it is marked by no exuberance of fancy or richness of imagery. It is simple, like the every-day occurrences it describes ; but these simple words are most admirably adapted to the sense, and the measure to the subject. Sitting C 2 12 Life of Shakespeare. on the benches so thoughtfully provided in the churchyard, beside the sweet flowing river near the chancel where rests England’s poet, there spreads out a large expansive lea; the Holy Trinity summons to evening prayer is the curfew. The grand opening lines repeat themselves : — The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea. The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. What a perfect picture ! A few masterly touches in bold outline and imagination instinctively fills up the minor details. In repeating the first line, the words toll and knell, favoured by the movement of the verse, seem to bear a certain resemblance to the modula- tions of a bell. The word lowing is equally apposite ; and in the third line the vowel in the word plod is preceded and followed by so many consonants con- secutively that the verse seems to labour as with the toilsome progress of a wearied man. Similar excel- lencies pervade the poem ; its chief beauty, however, consists in its exquisite proportions, and the graceful arrangement and fine tone of plaintive sentiment running throughout. The time and scene are pre- sented to us in the opening lines, followed by a few details of cottage life ; and with the mind impressed by the imaginary picture we are wafted off to the regions of speculation, while we seem to follow the bent of our own thoughts. A church at Stratford is mentioned in “Domesday Book and Dugdale, in his “ Antiquities of Warwick- shire,” says that it “ is a very ancient structure ; little less than the Conqueror’s time, as I guess by the fabrick of the steeple.” He records the erection of the south aisle of the nave, with a chantry-chapel at its eastern end, by John of Stratford, Archbishop of Canterbury, about the loth of Edward HI., and of the “ north and south cross,” or transept, by the executors of Hugh Clopton, in the reign of Henry VII. In 1358 this edifice was devoted to the rites and cere- monies of a college of priests and singing-boys, who were then settled in an adjoining building, by Ralph of Stratford, Bishop of London. This college enjoyed many privileges by royal charters, and its Principal was styled “ Dean of the Collegiate Church of the Holy Trinity.” The architectural character of the interior of the church is displayed in two compart- ments, or severies of the north side of the present choir. This shows two arches, with panelling above, and three of the twelve windows on each side, which are continued through the whole clerestory of the building ; also one arch, with an octagonal column, on the opposite side, and two screens opening into the north aisle. One of these is j^art of the canopy to an altar-tomb for Sir Hugh Clopton (as supposed, for all inscriptions are gone), who was Lord Mayor of London, 1492. There are monuments in the same chapel to other branches of the Clopton family, one of which commemorates an Earl of Totness and his Countess. At Shakespeare’s death, 1616, we may reasonably conclude that both the interior and exterior of the chancel probably varied but very little then from its original state of architectural perfection and beauty. It had not been finished much more than one hundred years ; and it may be inferred that all the walls, buttresses, parapets, and pinnacles of the exterior, with the floor, stalls, windows, doors, carved screen, and timber roof oi the interior, were nearly as sound and good as when left by their makers. That it had a timber roof is not only traditionally reported ; but Mr. Wheler, the able historian of Stratford, had a corbel-angel, which belonged to and supported one end of the principal beam. The mural bracket capitals, still remaining, are other evidences that the architect designed such a roof ; and we know that the choir of Stratford Church, and the ceilings of many churches of nearly coeval date, were thus finished. Much has been done in restoring this noble edifice ; a great deal, however, remains yet to be accomplished : the funds surely cannot fail to be forthcoming. Underneath Shakespeare’s monument, a little west- ward, formerly existed the door into the charnel-house. This building, supposed to have been Saxon, was pulled down in 1800. One of the Holy Trinity windows formerly bore this inscription ; — “ Thomas Balshall, Doctor of Divinity, re-edified this quier, and died. Anno 1491.” The old parish register is full of entries of bap- tisms and deaths in the Shakespeare family, the most important, of course, being — “Baptisms, 1564, April 26. Gulielmus filius Johannis Shakespere.” Blessed privilege, dear old Trinity, to hold in thy bosom such a priceless treasure ! What jewelled casket of the richest of the world’s nobles can be compared in value with this venerable register ! Ay ! and he was worthy of thy motherly care, for against Shake- speare the strictest orthodoxy has never brought a single charge. Yet if ever there was a man who questioned fate, who fought “ the cruel battle within,” and yet remained faithful, it was Shakespeare. Never in any of his plays is there the slightest symptom of that disbelief which ends in despair and mockery. Too large-minded for any one particular creed or system, he ever treats not only religion, but all things, with the purest spirit of reverence. There is a monument on the north side of the great east window worth looking at, on account of its con- nexion with Shakespeare, and e.xecutcd by the same sculptor as his own, to the memory of John Combe. He was, as is well known, a money-lender, and the story runs that he asked Shakespeare to write his epitaph, the severity of which the miser is said never 13 Stratford~ 07 i-Avon — Holy Trinity Church. to have forgiven. But the same thought may be found in different shapes in literature long before Shake- speare’s time, and there is probably but little truth in the tradition, as we find John Combe leaving by his will five pounds to Shakespeare. The common version of the epitaph is that given by Aubrey : — Ten in the hundred lies here ingraved : ’Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not saved : If any man ask who lies in this tomb ? Oh ! oh ! quoth the Devil, ’tis my John a Combe. The church itself is very beautiful, especially when seen by night, the moon lighting up the yellow-grey tower, etching its great black shadow on the church- yard, and breaking in soft silver lights upon the clerestory windows. Very beautiful, too, must that chancel have been where Shakespeare lies, when the windows were glazed with the forms of saints and angels, and the old oak roof hung down with its pendant figures and carved statues. But all this sinks into utter insignificance when compared with the one fact that this is the church where he knelt and prayed, and where he confessed the heavy burden and the mystery of the world. Who will dare question the tradition of Shakespeare’s deeply religious cast of thought towards the end of his life } There exists no reason for disbelieving it. We may surely better accept this than the vile stories unhesitatingly swal- lowed. Good traditions ever contain some germ of truth ; the reason being that human nature is too prone to invent not good, but evil report. And through all Shakespeare’s plays there ever shines forth a reverence not only for religion, but for the mysteries of life and the world. Reader, ponder over this, one of the most beautiful of Shakespeare’s autobiographical poems : — Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Fool’d by those rebel powers that thee array. Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth. Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? Why so large cost, having so short a lease. Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy body’s end ? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss. And let that pine to aggravate thy store : Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross : Within be fed ; without be rich no more : So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men. And death once dead, there’s no more dying then. Sonnet 146. The Monumental Bust of Shakespeare, in the chancel of Stratford Church will become, if it is not now, the most celebrated in the whole world. We have endeavoured to possess our readers with it in all truth and faithfulness of nature. If a genuine portrait of Alexander, of Homer, or of Alfred the Great, be regarded as a desideratum in the history of art, so is that of Shakespeare ; for though the English poet is comparatively a modern, yet it is as difficult and doubtful to substantiate the authen- ticity of a portrait of him, as of either the ancient Grecian hero, or poet, or of the more estimable English monarch. There is neither proof nor intima- tion that Shakespeare ever sat for a picture ; and it must be admitted that the whole host of presumed portraits “ come in such questionable shapes,” and with such equivocal pedigrees, that suspicion or dis- credit attaches to each and to all. Not so the Monu- mental Bust in Holy Trinity; this appeals to our eyes and understandings with all the force of truth. We view it as a family record ; as a memorial raised by the affection and esteem of his relatives, to keep alive contemporary admiration, and to excite the glow of enthusiasm in their posterity. This invaluable “ Effigy ” is attested by tradition, consecrated by time, and preserved in the inviolability of its own sim- plicity and sacred station. It was evidently executed immediately after the poet’s decease; and probably under the superintendence of his son-in-law. Dr. Hall, and of his daughter ; the latter of whom, according to her epitaph, was “ Witty above her sexe,” and therein resembled her father. Leonard Digges, in a poem praising the works and worth of Shakespeare, and published within seven years after his death, thus speaks of the Stratford monument : — Shakespeare, at length thy pious fellows give The world thy works ; thy works, by which outlive Thy tomb, thy name must : when that stone is rent. And time dissolves thy Stratford monument. Here we alive shall view thee still. This book. When brass and marble fade, shall make thee look Fresh to all ages : when posterity Shall loath what’s new, think all is prodigy That is not Shakespeare’s, every line, each verse. Here shall revive, redeem thee from thy hearse. Nor fire, nor cank’ring age — as Naso said Of his — thy wit-fraught book shall once invade : Nor shall I e’er believe or think thee dead. Though miss’d, until our bankrout stage be sped (Impossible) with some new strain to out-do Passions of Juliet and her Romeo ; Or till I hear a scene more nobly take. Than when thy half-sword parleying Romans spake : Till these, till any of thy volumes rest. Shall with more fire, more feeling be express’d. Be sure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die. But crown’d with laurel, live eternally. Now, whatever the poetical worth of Digges’ lines may be, certain it is he looked prophetically into the future, in telling the good folk of his own day, that when the monument of Stratford shall be dissolved, yet then shall the writings of Shakespeare be fresh to all ages. Dugdale, in his Antiquities of Warwickshire” 1656, gives a print of the monument, but drawn and engraved in a most tasteless and inaccurate style ; and he observes in the text, that the poet w'as famous, Life of Shakespeare. 14 and thus entitled to such distinction. Langbaine, in his “Account of English Dramatic Poets,” 1691, pronounces the Stratford Bust, Shakespere’s “true effigies.” These strongly tend to prove its antiquity ; and we may safely conclude that it was intended to be a faithful portraiture of the poet. In the age this was executed, it was customary to portray the heads and figures of illustrious and eminent persons by monumental statues and busts. Many were cut in alabaster and in white marble, whilst others were formed of freestone. In the reigns of Henries VI., VII., and VIII. some of the English monumental sculpture is remarkable for combining the essentials of breadth, simplicity, and nature. During Elizabeth’s reign it gradually degenerated ; and under that of James we find a still greater debasement. But some of the artists studiously endeavoured to perpetuate true portraits, or effigies, of the persons commemo- rated. Indeed it is quite clear that they aimed rather to produce likeness, than tasteful composition. This is evinced in the statue of Queen Elizabeth, in Westminster Abbey Church ; in the bust of Camden, in the same edifice ; the statue of Lord Bacon, at St. Alban’s ; the bust of Stow, in London ; and others. All these show that the artists sought for prototypes in nature ; either by modelling the respective persons while living, or by taking casts after death. The bust at Stratford is the size of life : it is formed out of a block of soft stone, and was origi- nally painted in imitation of the countenance and dress of the poet. The eyes were of a light hazel, and the hair and beard auburn ; the doublet or coat was scarlet, and covered with a loose black gown or tabard, without sleeves ; the upper part of the cushion was green, the under half crimson, and the tassels gilt. Such appear to have been the original features of this important, but neglected or insulted bust. After remaining in this state above one hundred and twenty years, Mr. John Ward, grandfather of Mrs. Siddons and Mr. Kemble, caused it to be “repaired, in 1748, and the original colours preserved,” from the profits of a representation of “ Othello.” This was a generous, and apparently judicious act ; and there- fore very unlike the next alteration it was subjected to in 1793. In that year Mr. Malone caused it to be covered over with one or more coats of white paint ; and thus at once destroyed its original character, and greatly injured the expression of the face. That the sculptors of Shakespeare’s age did fre- quently, if not invariably, execute their figures from authentic casts, might be shown by reference to numerous instances of monumental effigies, corre- sponding in the minutest features with paintings and other artistic representations of the same indi- viduals ; and the peculiar and remarkable charac- teristics of the bust of Shakespeare preclude the supposition that it constituted an exception to a rule so general. Halliwell says, “ The bust is beyond the reach of the doubt which attaches to the portraits, and is in no way assailable to hesitating criticism. It is at once the most interesting memorial of the dramatist that remains, and the only one that brings him before us in form and substance. There is a living and a mental like- ness in this monument ; one that grows upon us by contemplation, and makes us unwilling to accept any other resemblance. Sir Francis Chantrey expressed his belief that it was worked from a cast from life, or rather, perhaps, death. “ There are,” he says, “ in the original, marks of individuality which are not to be observed in the usual cast from it ; for instance, the markings about the eyes, the wrinkles on the forehead, and the undercutting of the moustachios.” Wordsworth wrote of it, “ I agree in the authen- ticity of the bust ; I cannot but esteem this resem- blance of the illustrious original as more to be relied upon than any other. As far as depends upon the intrinsic evidence of the features, the mighty genius of Shakespeare would have placed any record of his physiognomy under considerable disadvantages ; for who could shape out to himself features and a coun- tenance that would appear worthy of such a mind ? What least pleases in the present portrait is the cheek and jowl : the former wants sentiment, and there is too much of the latter.” This invaluable relic, then, may be considered as a correct resemblance of our beloved bard. The impress of that mighty mind which ranged at will through all the realms of nature and fancy, and which, though incessantly employed in the personification of passion and of feeling, was ever great without effort, and at peace within itself, is visible in the ex- quisite harmony and symmetry of the whole head and countenance. These, not only in each separate feature, in the swell and expansion of the forehead, in the commanding sweep of the eyebrow, in the undulating outline of the nose, and in the open sweet- ness of the lips, but in their combined and integral expression, breathe of him, of whom it may be said, in his own emphatic language, that : — We ne’er shall look upon his like again. Mr. Halliwell strangely states that the portrait of Shakespeare, engraved by Droeshout, and prefixed to the first folio edition of his plays, “ ranks next to the bust in point of authority ; and that a general resemblance is to be traced between them." The same opinion has been expressed by others ; but so far from perceiving the slightest similarity in these two works to each other, any experienced artist, or physiognomist, will recognize a very great difference between them, not only in general form and expres- Stratford-on-A von- sion, but in every separate feature. That Droeshout’s print “ ranks next to the bust in point of authority,” is more than doubtful; the only argument in its favour being based upon the meagre and generalizing lines by Ben Jonson : — This figure, that thou here seest put. It was for gentle Shakespeare cut ; Wherein the Graver had a strife With Nature, to out-do the life. Oh, could he but have drawn his wit, As well in brass as he hath hit His face ; the print would then surpass All that was ever writ in brass. But, since he cannot. Reader, look Not on his picture, but his book. We however agree with the writers who attach no value to the lines alluding to the “picture.” The wretched execution of the engraving proves that Droeshout was not only destitute of artistic talent, but, in the words of George Steevens, was “a most abominable imitator of humanity.” He says, “The verses in praise of Droeshout’s performance were probably written as soon as they were bespoke, and before their author had opportunity or inclination to compare the plate with its original. It is lucky, indeed, for those to whom metrical recommendations are necessary, that custom does not require they should be delivered on oath. It is also probable that Ben Jonson had no acquaintance with the graphic art, and might not have been over-solicitous about the style in which Shakespeare’s lineaments were transmitted to posterity. Utterly repudiating the engraving referred to, we are disposed to go further, and to regard the monu- mental bust as the only authentic representation of the poet ; for none of the paintings which have passed for original portraits, and which have attained much celebrity, and .realized high prices, possess claims to authenticity which are in any degree satis- factory to the impartial and discriminating critic. Here at his tomb we love to recall all these things about the man, and experience a deep joy in knowing that his heart was as loving and lovable as his brain was mighty and marvellous. We delight also in thinking, or in reading over what the great poets have said in honour of their greatest brother. We again hear “ rare Ben Jonson” telling the world that he “loved the man, and do honour his memory on this side idolatry, as much as any. He was, indeed, honest, and of an open and free nature.” We read once more, and never in a more appropriate place, his old friend’s lines : — To THE Memory of my beloved the Author, Mr. Wil- liam Shakespeare, and what he hath left us. To draw no envy, .Shakespeare, on thy name. Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man, nor Muse, can praise too much ; ■Holy Trmity Church. ’Tis true, and all men’s suffrage ; but these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; For seeliest ignorance on these may light. Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ; Or blind affection, which doth ne’er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise. And think to ruin, where it seem’d to raise. These are, as some infamous bawd or whore Should praise a matron ; what could hurt her more ? But thou art proof against them ; and, indeed. Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin : — Soul of the age. The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage ; My Shakespeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser ; or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room : Thou art a monument without a tomb ; And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses ; I mean, with great but disproportion’d muses : For, if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee wisely with thy peers ; And tell — how far thou didst our Lyly outshine. Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe’s mighty line. And though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek, From thence to honour thee, I would not seek For names ; but call forth thund’ring .(Eschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles, to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead. To life again, to hear thy buskin tread And shake a stage ; or when thy shocks come on. Leave thee alone ; for the comparison Of all that insolent Greece or haughly Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph my Britain ! thou hast one to show. To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time ; And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears ; or, like a Mercury, to charm. Nature herself was proud of his designs. And joy’d to wear the dressing of his lines ; Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit. As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit : The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; But antiquated and deserted lie. As they were not of Nature’s family. Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy art. My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. — F or though the poet’s matter nature be, His art doth give the fashion : and that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat, (Such as thine are) and strike a second heat Upon the Muse’s anvil ; turn the same (And himself with it), that he thinks to frame ; Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn, — For a good poet’s made, as well as born : And such wert thou. Look how the father’s face Lives in his issue ; even so the race Of Shakespeare’s mind and manners brightly shines In his wcll-turn’d and true-filed lines ; In each of which he seems to shake a lance. As brandish’d at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon, what a sight it were. To see thee in our waters yet ajopear; And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza and our James ! But stay ; I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there : — Life of Shakespeare. i6 Shine forth, thou star of poets ; and with rage Or influence, chide, or cheer, the drooping stage ; Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn’d like night. And despairs day, but for thy volume’s light. Thus nobly England’s second great dramatist wrote in memory of her first and greatest. Such golden testimony did “ rare Ben Jonson” bear to the nature, character, and genius of his contemporary, his “ be- loved Mr. William Shakespeare.” Over the grave in Stratford church is a fitting place to read these glorious lines. There, indeed, we feel that he is “a monument without a tomb;” that “he is still alive, while his book doth live ; and we have wits to read, and praise to give.” There, also, more fully than in any other place, do we realize the truth of the prophetic line, “ He was not of an age, but for all time and bless the memory of the brave, sturdy, honest, and appreciative friend who has so poetically given voice to our best and highest admiration of England’s chiefest child of song. Nor must we forget Milton’s noble epitaph. The large-hearted Puritan found his Pantheon large enough to admit Chaucer, and Spenser, and the writers of “wicked” plays. He did not scruple to confess how much he had learned from Spenser : he knew that “the lofty, grave tragedians are the teachers best of moral prudence and in memory of the greatest of these lofty, grave tragedians, the writer of England’s, if not the world’s noblest epic thus wrote : — What need my Shakespeare for his hallow’d bones The labours of an age in sculptured stones ? Or that his hallow’d reliques should be hid Beneath a star-ypointed pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame. What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name ? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow -endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow ; and that each heart Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book. Those Delphic lines with deep impression took ; There thou, our fancy of itself bereaving. Does make us marvel with too much conceiving : And so sepulchred in such pomp does lie. That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die. And here it is fitting to produce Edmund Spenser’s reference, who, in his “Tears of the Muses,” after lamenting the decline of poetry, thus writing : — And he, the man whom Nature self had made To mock herself, and truth to imitate, • With kindly counter, under mimic shade. Our pleasant Willy, ah ! is dead of late : With whom all joy and jolly merriment Is also deaded, and in dolour drent. Instead thereof scoffing Scurrility, And scorning Folly, with Contempt, is crept. Rolling in rhymes of shameless ribaldry. Without regret or due decorum kept ; Each idle wit at will presumes to make. And doth the Learned’s task upon him take. But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen Large streams of honey and sweet nectar flow. Scorning the boldness of such base-born men, Which dare their follies forth so rashly throw. Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell. Than so himself to mockery to sell. It has been the fashion of those who affect superior wisdom, by the constant exercise of incredulity, to doubt Spenser’s reference. The seeker after truth will recognize that, although the poem was written before Shakespeare’s death, yet the allusion was figu- rative, and his temporary retirement from dramatic authorship only was meant. The love of personal abuse had driven out real comedy, and there was one who, for a brief season, had left the madness to take its course. On the Sabbath morn on which we were accom- panied by Ralph Waldo Emerson and his interesting daughter to worship in Holy Trinity, we sat in the chancel stalls, on the south side, that our friends might get good view of the bust. Outside gentle breezes blew, and the tall trees bowed all their foliage, bending and rustling like dames of fashion ; spots of sunlight and shade were thrown on to the windows, and inside the priest prayed, and the choir ranged in front of the organ, sang. We were just opposite the monument. There were the two plump cherubs, the hideous skull, the coat armour, the spear on a bend ; for granting which armour to the poet’s father. Dethick, Garter King-at- Arms, got into trouble. For our part we fancied Shakespeare joining in the prayers, word for word, as we did. We fancied we saw that round bald head, with the curled chestnut locks at the side, bowed in one of the pews. We fancied that his observant eye noted every peculiarity of priest and people. And when the preacher mounted the pulpit the well-known words, “ parson’s saw ” — “ coughing drowns the par- son’s saw ” — somehow ran in our mind. Summer vanished, and a vision of cold stones in the February afternoon somewhere about the Year of Grace i6io, of many in church anxious to hear of the New Place pew and the man in it, of that man’s amuse- ment at the saw and the coughing ; and, thought we, as we looked at the bust, — What impression did it make on you, you open-eyed one 1 You were humourous, tender, and sympathetic. Did you have a genial feeling for the poor parson, or for the poor people } Or did your good condition, and New Place and King James’s complimentary letter fill your head } And did you feel rather proud and self-content ? Did you feel the great man in Stratford — William Shakespeare } Did you recollect you were the rescuer and rebuilder of your family, or did you call to mind the time when your father sat in the corporation pew as alderman ; or when he was turned out for poverty, t'. ** * • m 1 V -TF i . . , . i JWUt*) PYUWI. CtNIi' ipCRATai,ARTEM/»ONF,M: i^&iiuk-tEGrr^popvLvs maret. Olymp/s HAWcr SDW BlSSENt.eR-.WHY COEST mOV RY SO F>.ST/ jBnir'Bo.toNST.'wai esmo/s teen Hen pi>st, | SJmlNMSMON'/ieis- VvK.sre/BE.wi>r. wcHE .• . .VTTT. Stratford-on- A von — . and got into the back benches ? What a man you were, William Shakespeare, never to fill your writings, as our modern people do, with your own selfish aspi- rations, wishes, and dreams. You looked at others, and piit down what you saw. But perhaps you never had any high aspirations for yourself! Yet you must have had the “ harmony of immortal souls ” you speak of, which we cannot hear ; and found that, as you say, “ the smallest orb in heaven sings like an angel ; though whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it.” Oh, Shakespeare, we are constrained to hope, nay, to firmly believe, that sach did not kill you, and that you were not so much a man amongst men as to have lost the diviner, more unpopular, stern saintliness, which fits for heaven ! So our thoughts maundered along, and our eye fixed itself more firmly on the monument, till it seemed almost to acquire life beneath our gaze. There in the monument, we seemed to see a pulpit, cushion, and the manuscript sermon — even the pen. The great preacher’s moustache was too wiry for a parson, but the stolid rigidity of the figure was by no means unlike many a worthy expounder we have seen. All the time from the real pulpit came the plashy stream of a discourse, but we thought it was the stone that spoke. Pardon our straying, silly mind, O great one, for the follies that it dreamed that thou didst utter 1 “All people should be good/’ said the bust. “All should be kind and gentle, for the world is a wicked and a* queer place. I had a good surfeit of its follies, and the very motives of men were not hidden from me. “Great men and little men— all puppets, playing little plays — the king to the beggar — all march off the stage when the curtain falls.” “You people in your time are full of conceit with yourselves. You’re just what people were in my day.” “ In my time I saw many sorts of men, and looked them through. They bred me amongst wool-dealers and thriving burgesses. Then we went down hill in life. I wandered to the big city ; knew actors and actresses and great lords too. Wearied and worn I came back to my dear native Stratford ; and my writings were liked and admired because I copied men and women as they were. Yes! you admire what I wrote because I copied them. Time to end ? Yes. What is my moral “Be real! Follow me not; I was no saint. But follow me in this — be real !” “ But,” we remonstrated, “ Will Shakespeare, speak- ing in church is not allowed, we know, but how you would have despised the upstarts, the purse-proud rascals of our time ! How you would have seen with disdain the rich bankers and manufacturers turned into nobles for no other reason than that they had acquired so much of gain ! How you would have scorned the Holy Trinity Church. 17 trash of money ! Don’t you know how you said, ‘He that steals my purse steals trash ’.^ We want you to help our age. We want you to make us think more of eternity, and more of God’s greatness and man’s littleness. Oh, had we your wide deep know- ledge of human nature — what would it do for us V' We thought the face smiled and then seemed sad. The lips said, “Money, trash! Yes, it was a noble sentiment ! but you know I did not conform my life to my best thoughts. I did see much to make me weep and smile in human folly, but to despise upstarts was not in my way. No ; I could have painted them for you.” “God is great and man is little. Yes; but my knowledge of human nature will not help me to force this on your age or on any age. I could not force it on myself! Listen to that other preacher there!” We awoke from a reverie with a start, and we heard — “ What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul V' What our companion in the adjoining chancel stall thought all this time we know not, but as he took our arm he looked at the pulpit and said, “ Did he preach.^” “Who.? Shakespeare?” said we. “Yes!” A most interesting circumstance in connexion with the Shakespeare bust, if the supposition on which it proceeds can be relied on, is the discovery, about fifteen years ago, in Germany, of a plaster-cast, alleged to be the identical mask which was moulded from the features of the poet after death, and furnished the model to the sculptor of the monument. It is stated to have been originally purchased by a German nobleman, attached to an embassy to the court of James I. of England, and brought home by him to his native country, as a memorial of the great Shake- speare. Preserved in his family as a valued relic, it descended from generation to generation, until it came into the possession of the last of his race. Count Francis von Kesselstadt, one of the canons of Cologne cathedral. On the latter’s death, in 1843, his collec- tion of curiosities was sold and dispersed ; but the cast in question was, a few years afterwards, recovered among the rubbish of a broker’s shop, by Dr. Becker, who placed it in the hands of Professor Owen, in whose custody it now remains at the British Museum. It is a ghastly-looking object, though the features which it portrays are regular and handsome ; and if we accept it as a genuine cast of Shakespeare, there can be no doubt that the sculptor of the bust must have deviated considerably from his model, which represents a longer and more oval face. On the back of the mask is the inscription ‘ A“ Dm 1616.’ In connexion with Holy Trinity Church, we must recall the eloquent utterances of Doctor Trench, the Archbishop of Dublin, who, within its walls at the D Life of Shakespeai'e. i8 celebration of the Tercentenary of Shakespeare’s birth in 1864, gave expression to the national indebtedness to the poet’s works, and to their sound Christian character, in words never to be forgotten. If the literature of a nation were merely an amuse- ment of the cultivated few, the ornament of their idler hours, then what the fashion of it was, or what manner of men they were who formed it for us, would be of very slight importance indeed. We might desire that it should be graceful, as we should desire that the garniture of our houses or of our persons should be graceful — that it should entertain without corrupting : our desires could scarcelv extend further. But a nation’s literature is very much more than this. The work of its noblest and most gifted son.s, the utter- ance of all which has been deepest and nearest to their hearts ; it evokes and interprets the unuttered great- ness which is latent in others, but which, except for them, would never have come to the birth. By it the mighty heart of a people may be animated and quickened to heroic enterprise and worthiest endea- vour. With the breath of strong and purifying emotions, it can stir to a healthy activity the waters of a nation’s life, which would else have stagnated and putrefied and corrupted. Having such offices, being capable of such effects as these, of what vast concern it is, that it should deal with the loftiest problems which man’s existence presents — solve them, so far as they are capable of solution here, point to a solution behind the veil where this only is possible ; that, whatever it handles, things high or things low, things eternal or things temporal, spiritual or natural, it should be sound, should be healthy ; clear, so far as possible, of offence ; enlisting our sympathies on the side of the just, the pure, and the true. Of what supreme concern it is that those who so contribute to frame and fashion a nation’s life, should be men reconciled with God’s scheme of the universe, cheer- fully working in their own appointed sphere the work which has been assigned them there, accepting God’s world, because it is, with all its strange riddles and infinite perplexities, with all the burdens which it lays upon each one of us — not fiercely dashing and shat- tering themselves, like imprisoned birds, against the bars of their prison-house, or moodily nourishing in their own hearts, and in the hearts of others, thoughts of discontent, revolt, and despair. Such a poet, it may boldly be affirmed, we possess in Shakespeare. For must we not, first of all, thank- fully acknowledge a healthiness, a moral soundness in all, or nearly all, which he has written That on his part there is no paltering with the everlasting ordi- nances on which the moral estate of man’s life reposes, no challenging of the fitness of these, no summoning of God to answer for Himself at the bar of man for the world which He has created } Then, too, if he deals with enormous crimes — and he could not do otherwise, for these, alike in fiction and in reality, con- stitute the tragedy of life — yet the crimes which he deals with travel the common road of human guilt, with no attempt upon his part to extend and enlarge the domain of possible sin ; and certainly with no desire to paint it in any other colours than its own. He dallies not with forbidden things. All which the Latins, with so just a moral instinct, styled infanda and ncfanda, things not to be spoken of any more than to be done, these, which thus declare themselves unutterable, remain with rarest exception unuttered by him. And in his dialogue, if we set him beside those of his age and time, how little, by comparison with them, is there which we wish away from him, would fain that he had never written. There are some of his cotem- poraries whose jewels, when they offer such, must be plucked out of the very mire ; who seem to revel in loathsome and disgusting images, in all which for poor human nature’s sake we would willingly put out of sight altogether. What an immeasurable gulf in this matter divides him from them ! while of that which we imist regret even in him, a part we have a right to ascribe to an age of less refinement and coarser than our own ; and of that which cannot be thus explained, let us at all events remark how sepa- rable almost always it is from the context, leaving, when thus separated, all which remains perfectly wholesome and pure. There are writers, but he is not one of them, whose evil is inwoven with the texture of their writings, the very web and woof of these ; writers who defile, everything which they touch ; for whom, and ere long for whose readers, nothing is pure, one foul exhalation and miasma of corruption presently enveloping them both. But Shakespeare, if he has wrought any passing wrong, or given any just occasion of offence, let us not forget the compensations which he has made — that we owe to him those ideals of perfect woman- hood, which are the loveliest, perhaps the most transcendant, creations of his art. Shakespeare’s women — we have but to mention them, and what a procession of female forms, whose very names make music in our ears, move at once before the eyes of our mind. Surely if the woman be in God’s intention the appointed guardian of the sanctities of home, the purities of domestic life, we owe him much who has peopled the world of our imagination with shapes “ so perfect and so peerless ” as are these. True it is that we want far more than art, far more than the highest which art can yield, to keep us holy, to preserve us from the sin of our own hearts, from the sin of the world around us; and there is no more fatal mistake than to forget this. Neither dare we affirm of Shakespeare himself that he was always true 19 Stratford-o7i-A von — . to those ideals of female loveliness which he had created, that he never broke faith with them. We have evidence — he himself supplies it — that there was a period of his life when he laid up much matter of after-sorrow and self-reproach for himself — In his own wonderful words, “gored his own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear for what so dear as innocency and self-respect — he, too, a diamond only to be polished in its own dust ; and, like so many a meaner man, making in one part of his life work of repentance for another. But with all this we dare affirm an habitual delight in the purest, the noblest, and the fairest on the part of one who, in the workshop of his imagina- tion, forged a Miranda and an Imogen. “Filth savours but itself,” feeds, and would fain lead others to feed, on the garbage in which alone it finds pleasure. Of Shakespeare be it said, that he who has painted his long gallery of women, holy, and pure, and good, walking in fearless chastity through the world, has painted, in anything like full length, only one wanton woman throughout all the ample range of his art, and her only for scorn and contempt. There is another matter in which we owe a large debt of gratitude to Shakespeare, namely, in the fair- ness, the justice which he displays to all sorts of men, and this even when he was under the strongest temp- tation to withhold it. He may thus have helped us to something of the same fairness too. Take an ex- ample. Shakespeare was the child of the England of the Reformation. He was born of its spirit ; he could never have been what he was, if he had not lived and moved in the atmosphere, intellectual and moral, which it had created. Nor was he merely its unconscious product. One who so loved England, “ this demi- paradise,” who dwelt with such affection on the annals of her past glory, who allows the beatings of his own patriot heart to be so clearly felt and seen as he tells the story of Agincourt, could not have been indifferent to the assertion of national independence which the Reformation involved. Indeed, all of us must have felt that we heard not another, but Shakespeare him- self, speaking in those grand words with which he makes King John put back the pretensions of a foreign priest to “ tithe and toll ” in the dominions of an English king. And yet, born as he was of the spirit of the Reformation, with the after-agitations of that mighty struggle not yet subsided ; welcome as would have been to multitudes of his hearers a hold- ing up to hatred, or ridicule, or contempt of the proud prelate, the scandalous friar, the Incontinent nun, there is a noble absence in his writings of everything of the kind. As often as he does introduce members of any religious order, they are full of kindly help for others, and themselves grave, serious, devout. Indeed, we number among these the stately and severe Isabella, who, if she exaggerates aught, does it upon virtue’s Holy Trinity Church. side. A grand self-respect on the part of the poet, will not allow him to fall in with popular cries, to howl with the wolves, to trample on the weak or the pro- strate ; and he has helped in this to teach the English people a lesson which they have not altogether failed to learn. That we have here the explanation of what has just been noted, and not in any lingering affection upon his part to Romish doctrines and practices, is clear from the fact that he bears himself exactly in the same fashion towards the Puritans. Here, too, there can be no manner of doubt that any amount of abuse of these sectaries, just beginning to make themselves felt and feared, would have been welcome to large numbers of the playgoers of the time, that excellent sport might have been made of all which was peculiar and extravagant in them. Others, indeed, have not scrupled to make it ; but, bating a few passing jests with no malice in them, the shafts of his ridicule are never directed against them ; nor, indeed, we may take this occasion to add, against any earnest form of religious life whatsoever. He knew too well the danger of confounding the false and the true of reli- gion in a common reproach ; and how easily the scorn, meant for the one, might be made to light upon the other. The moral intention of Shakespeare’s poetry does not lie on the surface, is not obtruded ; it may and will often escape the careless reader. But it is there, lying deep, as do nearly all the lessons which God teaches us through our own lives, or through the lives of others. To no one of the uninspired writers of the world has it been granted so strongly to appre- hend, so distinctly to make visible, that men reap as they have sown, that the end lies in the beginning, that sooner or later “ the wheel will come full circle,” and “ the whirligig of time bring round its revenges.” Who else makes us so and with such a solemn awe to feel that justice walks the world — “delaying,” it may be, but “ not forgetting,” as is ever the manner with the divine avengers ? Even faults comparatively trivial, like that of Cordelia, he does not fear to show us what a train of sorrows, for this life at least, they may entail. Certainly we shall look in vain in him, as we look in vain through the moral universe, for that vulgar distribution of rewards and punishments in which some delight ; neither is death, which may be an euthanasia, the divine cutting of some tangled knot which no human skill could ever have untied — not death, but dishonoured life, is, in his estimate, the worst of ills. So, too, if we would recognize these footsteps of God in the world, this Nemesis of life, which he is so careful to trace, we must watch his slightest hints, for in them lies oftentimes the key to, and the explanation of, all. In this, with reverence be it said, he often reminds us of Scripture, and will indeed repay almost any amount of patient and accu- D 2 20 Life of Shakespeare. rate study which we may bestow upon him. In illus- tration of this, they are but a few idle words dropped at random, which, in the opening scene of “ King Lear,” make only too evident that Gloster had never looked back with serious displeasure at the sin of his youth, which stood embodied before him in the per- son of his bastard son ; that he still regarded it with complacency, rolled it as a sweet morsel under his tongue. This son, his whole being corroded, poisoned, turned to gall and bitterness, by the ever-present con- sciousness of the cleaving stain of his birth, is made the instrument to undo him, or rather to bring him through bitterest agonies, through the wreck and ruin of his whole worldly felicity, to a final repentance. Indeed, for once, Shakespeare himself points the moral in those words so often quoted, but not oftener than they deserve : — The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us. But, for this once that he points the moral of a life, a hundred times he leaves us to point it ; as, indeed, is almost always the manner in that Book of books, which, like Joseph’s kingly sheaf, stands up in the midst of the field, that even the chiefest among the others may make obeisance to it. Let it be noted in connexion with this, that the ideal characters of his art, just as the real characters of actual life, never stand still. They are rising or falling, growing better or growing worse, and ripening thus for their several dooms. Some we behold work- ing out their lives into greater clearness and noble- ness, making steps of their dead selves by which they are mounting to higher things. Summoned to the more stern and serious business of life, or brought into the school of adversity, we see them taking shame to themselves that they have played the truant hitherto, learning to look at life as something more than a jest, girding themselves in earnest to its tasks and toil, and leaving for ever behind them the frivolity and the vanity, it may be the folly and the sin, in which hitherto their years were spent. There is no dearer argument with Shakespeare than this, nor one to which he oftener returns. And then, on the other side, he shows us them who will not use aright the discipline of life, who welcome and allow those downward-dragging temptations which beset us all ; these waxing worse and worse, forfeiting what good they once possessed, strengthen- ing in their evil, and falling from one wickedness to another. He shows us a Macbeth, met in that most dangerous hour, the hour of his success, giving place to the devil, allowing the wicked suggestion of the Evil One room in his heart, and then the dread con- catenation of crime, one ever drawing on, and in a manner rendering necessary another, till the end is I desolation and despair, the blackness of darkness for ever. Where is there a sermon on the need of resist- ing temptations at the outset, of treading out these sparks of hell before they have set on fire the whole course of nature, like that ? And then — to speak not of what Shakespeare has written, but what Shakespeare was — assuredly we owe him much for the connexion which he has shown may exist between the loftiest genius and the most perfect sober-mindedness. He had for ever rendered absurd the notion that genius is of necessity irregular, unable to acquiesce in the ordinary conditions of human existence, or cheerfully to adapt itself to these. Doubtless it has often failed in this. There are too many to whom, whether by their own fault, or by some mysterious destiny, the very gifts of heaven have been fatal. The shore of human life is strewn with no sadder wrecks than some which these have made ; and not without abundant warrant did a poet of our own age sum up the lives of many who had gone before him — “ the mighty poets in their misery dead!' Yes, mighty, but not the mightiest of all. He who towers above every other is memorable by all which we know of him, for the even balance of all his faculties ; for the equable and harmonious development of his whole being ; for the unpre- tending simplicity which would not allow him to claim any exemptions, any immunities on the score of genius for himself. In nothing eccentric, in nothing differing to the common eye from any other burgher of his town, he bought and sold in its streets ; por- tioned his daughters ; invested in prudent purchases the fruits of honourable toil ; what he had thus fairly earned was prepared, if occasion required, to defend by such just help as the law afforded ; shrunk from no humblest duty of every-day life ; and yet all the while knew himself, for he must have known it, the dear heir of a memory which the world should never let die. Can we imagine this England of ours without her Shakespeare, in which he had never lived or sung ? What a crown would be stricken from her brow ! How would she come down from the pre-eminence of her place as nursing mother of the foremost poet whom the world has seen, whom, we are almost bold to prophesy, it ever will see ! Think how much poorer intellectually, yea, and morally, every one of us would be ; what would have to be withdrawn from circula- lation, of wisest sayings, of profoundest maxims of life-wisdom, which have now been absorbed into the very tissue of our hearts and minds ! what regions of our fancy, peopled now with marvellous shapes of strength, of grace, of beauty, of dignity, with beings which have far more reality for us than most of those whom we meet in our daily walk, would be empty I and depopulated ! And remember that this which Stratford-on-Avon — Holy Trinity Church. we speak of would not be our loss alone, or the loss of those who have lived already, but the disappearance as well of all that delight, of all that instruction, which, so long as the world endures, he will diffuse in circles ever larger, as the recognition of him in his unapproachable greatness becomes every day more unquestioned, as he moves in the ages which are yet to come through ever wider avenues of fame.” Few, in the very nature of things, can be those illustrious sons of memory, dwelling apart from their fellows on the mountain peaks of their solitary gran- deur, and dominating from these, their own age and the ages to come. To very few it can be granted, that their names shall resound through the centuries, that men shall make long pilgrimages to the place of their birth, gather up the smallest notices of them as infinitely precious, chide an incurious age which suffered so much about them, that would have been priceless to us, to perish for ever, or celebrate with secular solemnities the returning period of their birth. And has he not taught us that goodness is more than greatness, and grace than gifts ; that men attain to heaven, not soaring on the wings of genius, but pa- tiently climbing by the stairs of faith and love and obedience ; that the “brightest crowns, if all their brightness is of earth and none from heaven, are doomed to wither ; that there is but one amaranthine crown, even that which Christ gives to them, be they high or low, wise or simple, emperors or clowns, who have loved, and served, and obeyed Him ? This crown they have obtained, the serious and sage poets who have consecrated their divine faculty to the service of Him who lent it. Who will doubt that from one so gentle, so tender, so just, so true, as was Shakespeare, the grace to make this highest consecration was not withholden — that we have a right to number him with Dante, with Spenser, with Milton, and that august company of poets — Who sing, and singing in their glory move ? His intimate, in some sense his profound, acquaint- ance with Scripture, no one can deny, or the strong grasp which he had of its central truths. He knew the deep corruption of our fallen nature, the desperate wickedness of the heart of man ; else he would never have put into the mouth of a prince of stainless life such a confession as this : “ I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me, . . . with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.” He has set forth the scheme of our redemption in words as lovely as have ever flowed from the lips of uninspired man : — Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once. And He that might the vantage best have took Found out the remedy. 2 I He has put home to the holiest here their need of an infinite forgiveness from Him, who requires truth in the inward parts : — How would you be. If He which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are ? He was one who was well aware what a stewardship was his own in those marvellous gifts which had been entrusted to him, for he has himself told us : — Heaven doth with us as we with torches do. Not light them for themselves ; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike As if we had them not. And again he has told us that : — Spirits are not finely touch’d. But for fine issues ; assuredly not ignorant how finely his own had been touched, and what would be dem.anded from him in return. He was one who certainly knew that there is none so wise that he can “ circumvent God,” and that for a man, whether he be called early or late. Ripeness is all. Who shall persuade us that he abode outside of that holy temple of our faith, whereof he has uttered such glorious things — admiring its beauty, but not himself entering to worship there ? One so real, so truthful, as all which we learn about Shakespeare declares him to have been, assuredly fell in with no idle form of words, when in that last testament which he dictated so shortly before his death, he first of all, and before all, commended his soul to God his Creator ; and this (quoting his express words), “ hoping and assuredly believing through the only merits of Jesus Christ my Saviour to be made partaker of life everlasting.” Yes, he has shown us here the one gate of heaven, and there is no other gate by which any man may enter there. There are men who would limit our homage of Shakespeare, and who tell us that the Bible has not a word, to lead us to glorify and extol intellectual superiority as such. This view was dealt with by Dr. Charles Wordsworth, Bishop of St. Andrew’s, in a masterly manner in an eloquent discourse delivered in Holy Trinity at the Centenary Celebration. He shows that there is that in the Inspired Volume which teaches us to recognize all pre-eminence and magistracy over others as an especial ordinance and gift of God ; also that there is that which teaches us that all conquest over temptation, and particularly over the temptation of wealth, in the cause of God, is a subject not only fit and desirable for man to con- template at all times and in every place, but pleasing also to the holy angels, and to God Himself. But what magistracy, what sovereignty among men, is so o 'y Life of Shakespeare. powerful in its effects, for good or for evil, as the sovereignty of mind ? What conqueror over the temptations of wealth is so worthy of our contem- plation as he who, possessing the treasures of un- rivalled genius, has used them, not to serve his own pride, or vanity, or aggrandizement, but to promote the cause of truth and godliness ? The Church of Christ has ever considered it a part of true piety to give thanks for Kings and Governors ; and rich men have received from the gratitude of posterity a religious commemoration of the benefits which their charity has bestowed. It needs, therefore, no apology to say, respecting one whom God raised up three cen- turies ago, that he was at once a mighty prince over the thoughts of men, through the pre-eminence of his intellectual powers ; and through the richness of his genius a munificent benefactor, for ages upon ages, not to his own country and nation only, but to the world at large. It is now pretty universally felt that the works of Shakespeare are on the right side ; the side of what is true, and honeSt, and just, and pure, and lovely, and of good report — in a word, on the side of virtue and of true religion. Nor can it be said, in this case at least, that the popular voice has erred. It is in accord- ance with the voice of one whose testimony upon such a point will be accepted as of the highest and most unquestionable authority — the revered author of the “Christian Year,” who must also be men- tioned as the editor of the “ Works of Hooker,” that great contemporary of Shakespeare, whose name shines out among our theologians with a kindred, and not inferior, light to that of Shakespeare among our poets, and that of Lord Bacon among our philosophers. In the Lectures which he delivered as Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford, while specifying the notes or characteristics by which poets of the first rank are to be discerned, the distinguishing mark which he requires, first of all, is consistency. The first-class poet, he remarks, is througJmit consistent, and in harmony ivith himself. And where does the critic look for his examples in proof of this pro- position ? He brings forward two poets who flourished in the same, that is, our own country, and at the same time. Fiist, he produces Spenser, in whom he sees everywhere sustained the same very form and look of true nobility ; and next he produces Shakespeare. We need not wonder that the former should have been chosen ; but when we consider the disadvantage under which a dramatic poet lies in regard to a point like this, we may feel well assured that no such ex- ample would have been appealed to except from the conviction that it was singularly a just one. And this consistency of character which, as a first and most decisive test, assigns our poet to the highest rank, in what is it to be found \ It is to be found in the uni- versal impression which his works convey. And for this the Lecturer confidently appeals to the memory of his hearers. “ Recollect,” says he, “ I beseech you, how you each felt when you read those plays for the first time. Do you not remember that all along, as the drama proceeded, you were led to take the part of whatever good and worthy characters it contained ; and more especially, when you reached the end and closed the book, you felt that your inmost heart had received a spur, which was calculated to urge you on to virtue ; and to virtue, not merely such as is apt, without much reality, to warm and excite the feelings of the young, but such as consists in the actual practice of a stricter, more pure, more upright, more industrious, more religious life ? And as for the pas- sages of a coarser sort, here and there to be met with in those plays, any one may perceive that they are to be attributed, in part, not to the author, but to the age in which he lived ; and partly they were intro- duced as slaves in a state of intoxication were intro- duced into the presence of the Spartan youth — to serve as warnings and create disgust. We need not hesitate, therefore, to conclude ilium virtuti ex atiimo favisse — that he favoured virtue from his very soul ; more especially when we consider how widely diffe- rent is the case with most of his contemporaries, who devoted themselves, as he did, to writing for the stage. “ Memoria repetatis, oro, quae cuique vestrum fuerit animi sententia, .fabulas istas prima vice per- legenti. Nonne, cum totius Poematis decursu, pro- borum vos ac piorum, si qui erant, partes suscipere meministis ; turn praecipue cum ventum erat ad plau- dite quasi stimulos virtutis in animo relictos sentire } neque ejus modo virtutis, quae specie quadam et fer-^ vore juvenum corda commovere valeat, verum etiam severioris hujus, castimoniae, fidei, industriae, pietatis } Ut facile quis intelligere possit quae aliquando subtur- picula intexuntur, partim saeculi esse, non scriptoris ; partim ut ebrios Laconicis pueris, tanquam odiosa ac vitanda proponi. Ergo ilium ex animo virtuti favisse no 7 i est 07 ir dubitemus : cum praesertim plerique eorum, qui tunc scenicis dabant operam, in alia omnia abire consueverint.” — Prczlectiones Academiece Oxotiii habitce a Joanne Keble, A.M., Oxon., 1844, vol. i. p. 58 sq. This is lofty commendation ; but it is just. Nor do we scruple to consent to the still higher praise which the same unexceptionable judge has bestowed in another part of his work upon the same two poets, Spenser and Shakespeare. “ Not only,” he says, “ did they measure everything by a certain innate sense of what is virtuous and becoming ; not only did they teach to hate all profaneness, but they trained and exercised men’s minds to virtue and reli- gion, inasmuch as each of them is wont to refer all things which the eye beholds to the heavenly and the true, whether as occurring in the actions of men and Stratford-on-A voii- upon the stage of life, or as seen in the glorious spec- tacle everywhere presented in the heavens and the earth ; precisely as does the Church Catholic, only, as it is her province to do, in a manner mystical and divine. And hence it is that the poetry we speak of led the way, as I believe, to sounder views even upon sacred things, and to juster sentiments concerning God himself.” “ Illi rem quamque metiebantur innato quodam honesti et decori sensu. . . Neque verb illud solum edocuerant nobilia carmina, odisse pro- fanos, sed multo magis ad pietatem et religionem exercuerant animos ; siquidem omnia quae oculis cer- nuntur referre solet uterque scriptor ad ccelestia et vera, sive ea versentur in scena et actione hominum, sive in pulcherrimo coeli ac terrarum aspectu : quod idem egit semper Ecclesia Catholica, suo tamen more, mystico quodam et excelso. Proinde ex hac quoque parte praeii'sse dixerim saniori de Deo sententiae sege- tem illam egregiorum carminum.” — Hid. ii. 813. Who shall overrate our poet’s nationality t Like Homer to the Greeks, he is the poet oi us Englishmen. And as we look for no better, so we desire no other. We feel — even foreigners have felt — that the verse of Shakespeare, more than that of any other of our poets. Flowed From the clear spring of a true English heart. And while he is pre-eminently our poet in other re- spects, he is so most especially in that we are a domestic nation. In this respect he may remind us of those well-known lines, in which one of the most melodious of our British birds, the common skylark, is ad- dressed : — Type of the wise who soar, but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home ! If ever there was a man to whom the description in this latter verse might justly be applied, it is William Shakespeare. He himself has compared himself to the skylark in his 29th Sonnet : — Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. Haply I think on thee — and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate. How “ true ” he was to “ heaven,” under circum- stances in which his fidelity must have been tried as by fire, we have already seen. Nor was he less “true to home.” When he left this place in which he had been born ; when he went up to the great city. To pour upon the world A flood of harmony- such as it has never heard either before or since ; still he returned periodically, year by year (Aubrey says, — “ He was wont to go to his native country once a yeare ”) to this self-same spot ; still, when the effort had been made, which his own support and the ■Holy Trinity Church. 23 support of his family rendered necessary, time after time, he dropped, as it were, again into this his nest, to refresh himself for renewed exertions : — Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! And when (thanks to the good providence of God, which blessed his faithfulness) the necessity for those exertions ceased, he had no thought, it would appear, or desire of happiness, apart from or beyond these same associations : all his ambition was still to retire into the same bosom of his family ; to wander still in these same fields ; to worship still in the same church; and eventually to be gathered to his own, where his own might follow him in the same resting-place, lying side by side within the precincts of the hallowed walls of Holy Trinity. But it is not merely as a poet, or even as a poet who wrote, in a high and genuine sense of the word, religiously, but as a man, a Christian man, that we should be content to honour Shakespeare. Let us see, then, what he was as such. Undazzled by the world, and coveting nothing which the world can give, we find him indifferent to the fate even of the produce of his own immortal mind, and throwing his pearls, with child-like simplicity, into the lap of time, as if unconscious of their amazing worth. A man of a less simple or less sober temper, after he had attained to prosperity and to fame, would never have chosen, when not yet fifty years old, to settle down for the remainder of his days, in rural quietude, and in the place which had known him, not only in obscurity, but in poverty and distress. But seeking, as he did, to shun rather than to court distinction, the fact that “ a prophet is not without honour save in his own country and in his o\yn house,” tended rather to recommend this choice to him the more ; — happy, if only he might be allowed to study nature, and to cultivate his own moral being, in order that he might be “ ripe,” in God’s good time — which proved to be a very early time — might be “ ripe,” for being gathered into a far more joyful and more glorious abode. Who shall blame what, from our knowledge of the man, we may justly conceive to have been his pre- dominating motive for retirement, the hope that in the bosom of rural peace, aloof from the dissipations and seductions of the stage, he might the better pre- pare for that event which awaits us all, and which talents such as his were can only, from the magnitude of the trust, render more awfully responsible I But there is a further point of view, which combines in one the poet and the man, and which, if we look with a wise and patriotic interest upon the destinies of our country and of the human race, cannot fail to raise him still higher in our esteem. Born within four years after Francis Bacon, that gigantic intellect, and worthy to be so reckoned in an age of giants 24 Life of Shakespeare. (such was the bounty of God towards our land and people in the first half-century after the Reforma- tion !), it was, we may say, the vocation of William Shakespeare to live and to write as if protesting against the undue claims of that physical philosophy which received a new life from the genius of Bacon, and against the evils to which an excessive cultivation of it will be apt to lead. It is impossible to calculate how much we owe to our poet on this account. We are pre-eminently a practical, and are becoming more and more a mechanical nation ; and in proportion as we become so, the works of Shakespeare will be to us more and more invaluable. Not that there is to be found in his pages any unworthy jealousy of the powers which physical studies are calculated to evoke, or of the triumphs which, as time rolled on, they might be expected to achieve. Far otherwise. Not that he has betrayed any faithless fear of the progress of science, or of the activity of the human intellect to whatever subjects it might be applied. No ; to him Ignorance is the curse of God ; K7towledge, the wing wherewith we fly to heaven. Hetiry VI., Part II., Act iv. Scene 7 . But what is there in those pages ? There is the very antidote we need to guard and to strengthen our moral system against the prevailing epidemic — the epidemic which has arisen out of devotion to me- chanical pursuits, and to the study of material phe- nomena, in relation to the luxuries and conveniences | of life. On the one hand, there is everything to refine, ' to elevate, to enlarge ; on the other hand, there is | nothing to make us impatient of acquiescence in j imperfect knowledge, which is a necessary condition I of our existence here. In a word, Shakespeare, more | than any other writer in our native tongue, gives to i Englishmen who are debarred, as he himself had | been, from the higher classical education, what such I an education gives still more eminently to those who | have enjoyed it, and turned it to its full account. Debarred he himself had been from direct access to the great intellectual treasuries of Greece and Rome. And yet how much of the highest and purest sentiment, how many of the noblest thoughts and images, for which the best authors of antiquity are distinguished, lie scattered also over the pages of his works; just as in the vegetable world specimens of the same plants have been found growing in widely distant regions of the globe, between which no certain channel of communication has been known to exist. It has been made a frequent subject of complaint that so little has come down to us respecting our poet’s life. Perhaps it is not desirable for us to be more fully informed concerning it than we actually are. His personal existence can never, by the utmost hardihood of critical scepticism, be— as that of Homer has been — doubted of, and explained away. We know the day of his baptism, and the day of his death. We know the names of his parents, of his wife, of his children. We know the circumstances from which we feel justified in pronouncing him to have been a man strong in domestic, strong in local attachments. We are sure that he ate, drank, and slept like other men. We are no less sure that he prayed, that he read his Bible, that he came to church. We know that he lost (for this world) his only son, when that son was but a boy in his twelfth year : and we can imagine what a sore affliction this loss must have been to a parent of such affection, such sensibility, such tenderness ; we can imagine how, like David, while the child was yet alive, he fasted and prayed if peradventure he might be spared ; and how, like David too, when the child was gone, he suffered not the chastisement to bereave him of his natural cheer- fulness, through the excellency of his faith. In the play which he wrote in that same year, as some have supposed, or, as others, two years later, who can doubt that he was thinking of his own lost son, when the Lady Constance is made to utter that affecting speech i* — Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me ; Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts. King John, Act iii. Scene 4 . Or again, who will not feel that he gave expression to his own belief, when the same Lady Constance addresses the Pope’s Legate } — F ather Cardinal, I have heard you say That we shall see and know our friends in heaven : If that be true, / shatt see 7ny boy agam. Moreover, we know his unwearied diligence, and the blessings which attended it. We know how he has written. What truth has he not taught i’. What duty has he not enforced t What relation of life, and of living things, rational or irrational, has he not illustrated t How has he looked through nature, and above all into the heart of man, with the intuitive knowledge with which the skilful artisan inspects the mechanism of the watch which he himself has made. And knowing these things, we know enough to teach us how little true greatness is dependent upon external circumstances. We know enough to shame us, if any of us should complain of the difficulties and disadvantages in which God has placed him. The theatre itself, which received those masterpieces of Shakespeare’s genius, what was it but a hovel, all rude, and shapeless, and unadorned t The father of Shakespeare was so little able to instruct his son, that he could not so much as write his own name ; so little able to advance his son, that, for a time, he 25 Stratford-on-A von — could not even appear in this church on the Lord’s day, from liability to arrest for debt. Yet Shake- speare lived to make the stage worthy of the utmost contrivance and embellishment of art. Shakespeare lived to relieve his father from distress in his old age. Shakespeare lived to become a teacher of the world, so long as time shall last. Shakespeare lived to re- ceive, as a benefactor, the blessings of the poor, not forgetting them, we may be sure, while he lived, inasmuch as he remembered them when he died. But there is still one circumstance in our poet’s life which has not yet been noticed, and which we discover from documentary evidence that admits of no question. Twelve years after it had pleased God to take from him his only son, he became godfather to the new- born son of William Walker, baptized at Stratford, October i6, 1608, a relationship which he also remem- bers, and acknowledges by a gift, in his last will. This is a fact which cannot but possess peculiar interest. Others, when they visit our poet’s birthplace, will delight themselves by the fancied vision of his appear- ance as he wandered at will among these pleasant fields ; as he looked, and moralized, upon that flowing stream ; as, at this season of the year, he would watch the budding foliage, and welcome the returning flowers ; as he stood basking himself in the noontide sun, or lay reposing in the evening shade. We trust all will try to imagine him as he knelt by that sacred font ; to hear him as he listened and responded to the articles of the Christian faith in the name of that little child — “ All this I steadfastly believe.” Nor can we doubt, for a moment, but that he knew and perceived in his inmost soul what those things meant. Rather we must suppose that the author of “ Othello,” of “ Hamlet,” of “ Macbeth,” when he heard and accepted that venerable formulary and deposit of saving truth, fathomed somewhat of its exceeding depth, beyond what it is permitted to us to reach — and all the more, because, giant as he was in intellectual strength, he himself had the heart and simplicity of a child. Yes ; and as Schlegel says, “ as if unconscious of his supe- riority, he was as open and unassuming as a child.” He felt, in relation to the time, the place, and circum- stances of that solemn ministration, what a brother poet has since expressed : — I Here, should vain thoughts outspread their wings, and fly To meet the coming hours of festal mirth, The tombs — which hear and answer that brief cry. The infant’s notice of his second birth — Recall the wandering soul to sympathy With what man hopes from heaven, yet fears from earth. He felt in relation to the responsibilities which he had taken upon himself — Shame, if the consecrated vow be found An idle form, the word an empty sound ! The great Roman orator, when he visited Syracuse, ■Holy Trinity Church. felt and expressed an especial interest in the spot where the tomb of Archimedes was to be found ; so let all who visit Stratford manifest concern for the conse- crated edifice which contains his monument and dust. See Cicero, Ticsc.Disp. lib. v. c. 23. The extravagant praise which Silius Italicus (Punic, lib. xiv. 341 sqq.) gives to Archimedes might be applied far more justly to Shakespeare : — Vir Stratfordiacis decus immortale colon is, Ingenio facile ante omnes telluris alumnos, Nudus opus, sed cui coelum terraeque paterent. And so, too, might the similar, but far more elegant compliment, which Lucretius (iii. 1056 sq.) had before paid to Epicurus : — Qui genus humanum ingenio superavit, et omnes Restrinxit, Stellas exortus uti aerius Sol. It is true he is to all men the poet of humanity, master of our nature in its weakness and in its strength ; and, as such, to be honoured and admired of all ; but he is, moreover, to us Englishmen the national, the do- mestic poet, whom we love as we love our own homes. Above all, he is one of whom, judged of in the cha- racter up to which he grew, the Church of Christ has no need to be ashamed ; — because in him, as a poet, poetry has fulfilled every purpose for which in the mercy of God she was given to our fallen race as, next to Revelation, His most precious boon ; and because in him as a man, the Gospel has exemplified that truest element of the Christian character, of which it is written — “ Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” While resting here in the Holy Temple, so specially sacred to our great poet, we are forcibly impressed by reflections uttered some years since by the “Quarterly Review,” in its ever powerful language, remarking that Shakespeare, like Spenser, was allied by his mother’s side to gentle blood ; like Hooker, he was linked to the burgher classes by the stronger parent. Brought up in the country till the age of manhood, thrown early upon his own resources, obliged to no college fellowship like Hooker, to no diplomatic appointment like Spenser, he was tossed on the seething waves of the Metropolis, or rather cast himself upon them, with the same bold- ness, perhaps the same apparent recklessness, as he had entered on a marriage at eighteen, when he was no better than a poor apprentice or foreman to a failing glover in a poor country town. Of his life- struggles — and they must have been many — he has left no sign. Of his patience, his endurance, his solitary determination, whilst unassisted and unad- vised, he carved out his way from the safe obscurity of Stratford to the highest pinnacle of fame, he has told us nothing. This early familiarity with the hard realities of life left no trace on his mind, as these things E 26 Life of Shakespeare. leave scars and traces on inferior intellects, beyond perhaps that sympathy with humanity, that profound appreciation of it in all its forms, which is one of his greatest characteristics as a poet. How far the circumstances of his life and times may have determined or assisted the development of his genius it is not easy to ascertain. Of no other English poet can it be said with greater justice: Poeta nas- citur non fit. Many, indeed, of Shakespeare’s enthu- siastic admirers will not allow that he owed anything to art or to learning. They claim for Nature and for natural inspiration alone those great masterpieces of invention in which others have professed to find traces of the most profound philosophy, the most acute physiological knowledge, the clearest distinc- tions of races, the fullest appreciation of all forms of poetry, the exactest study of man and of nature. That Shakespeare owed most to Nature, that his obligations to learning or accidental circumstances were but slight, we may fully concede, without at the same time entirely overlooking the obvious advantages afforded by the times for dramatic composition, and the traces of classical education to be found throughout the poet’s works. The same keen and unerring in- stinct which from a single glance could body forth and project in a visible form the whole life and character of a man, however remote from ordinary observation, would by a similar power extract from books — poor and meagre in themselves — the quintessence of a life rich and varied, instinct with thoughts and feelings, such as inferior intelligences would fail to gather from the most perfect productions of the greatest genius. The dreary chronicle, the blundering biography, the vapidest translations of Caesar or of Sallust, were instruments sufficient to set at work that innate power of the poet which, like Nature itself, developes the most perfect and glorious results from the most con- temptible and unworthy materials. That is what we mean by genius. With ordinary men the instruments by which they work must bear some proportion in dignity and value to the end to be produced ; but genius is divine and miraculous in this, that it is not tied to the order, methods, and instruments by which common men are bound. Admitting, then, that no amount of training or study can account for Shake- speare’s plays, admitting also that the poet was little indebted to school learning for his wonderful produc- tions, that would not necessarily invalidate the im- portance of his education, or the beneficial influences of his peculiar times. Brought up at the Grammar School of Stratford, he would acquire as much know- ledge of Latin and French as fell to the lot of most of his contemporaries. Before the great public schools had attracted much attention — before, indeed, they were accessible to the large majority of the English country gentlemen, owing to bad roads and inefficient means of travelling — the grammar schools of our country towns furnished the only means for the training and education of the gentry and richer citizens throughout the largest extent of England. Were the results poor and unsatisfactory } Can any period be pointed out in our history which provided on the whole abler schoolmasters or scholars more deeply interested in learning } It is impossible to open any popular book of those times without being struck with its rich abundance of classical allusion. If this be attributed to pedantry, that pedantry was universal. But we have a more unsuspicious testimony ; not only did the dramatists of the age freely borrow from clas- sical antiquity their plots, their quotations, their witti- cisms — and that for dramas intended for a popular audience — without scruple, without dread of being misunderstood — but in the humours of Eastcheap, in the busiest haunts of life, “ the honey of Hybla,” “pitiful Titan,” “ Phcebus the wandering knight,” “ Diana’s foresters,” “ homo is a coinmo7i name for all men,” are freely bandied from mouth to mouth, with not so much as a thought on the part of the author that his allusions will not be fully understood by his audience. If Shakespeare, then, had, as Jonson observes, “ little Latin and less Greek,” the admission at least implies that he had some knowledge of both — enough of Latin to read ordinary Latin books and transla- tions, and more than enough of genius to extract from what he did read the pith and substance. It w'as an age throughout of Latin cultivation. Greek, with few exceptions, was unattainable, except to men of fortune, or rare scholars at the Universities. In fact, Shake- speare was the poet of an age that loved learning for its own sake — an age that had come into a new in- heritance of breathless wonder and interest — Like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; and he would not have been the man of his time, nor the poet that he was, had he been wholly indifferent to learning or wholly unacquainted with it. Nor were the times less favourable to him as a dra- matic poet. The Reformation had done much to de- velope individual character. The feeling of a common Christendom, the sense of submission to the Church as a great society, the duty of not diverging widely from the authorized limits of religious opinion and belief, had all passed away. Each man felt bound to carve out a faith for himself, and to discard as worthless — at least, as suspicious — whatever was recommended or received on authority or tradition. Bacon has said that time, like a river, brings down on its surface the straw and the stubble, but the solid and the gold have long since sunk to the bottom. What seems like a paradox to the philosopher, was accepted by the 27 Stratford-on-Avon — Holy Trmity Church. Reformers as an undoubted and undeniable truth. Authority was the test of fasehood, not of truth. Uniformity of belief was not to be found in nations or in single men. No two agreed. Diversity of faith led to diversity of character ; and if there be one phenomenon more striking than another in the reign of Elizabeth, it is the strange humours, the extra- vagancies, the conceits, the motley exhibition of dress, manners, sentiments, and opinions, admitting no central authority, bound by no restraint beyond the caprice of the individual. There was, besides, no standard of taste, no school of criticism, no public opinion, literary or otherwise, to which men could defer, or probably, if there had been, would have cared to defer. There were no settled forms of English — no deference to classical models, which all consented to accept. No long-established rules imposed a whole- some restraint on the teeming invention and luxuriant wit of the Elizabethan writers. But while the Reformation had been thus powerful in developing individual character in its widest extent; whilst men revelled in their new-found liberty, and cared not to determine when it degenerated into licentiousness ; whilst Nature avenged herself on the dry, logical studies of a preceding age by a reaction which sometimes trespassed into animalism — the material forms of the old world and the old religion still held their ground. In the parish church the service was in English, not in Latin ; but the cere- monies, the dresses, the fasts, and the festivals, though curtailed, remained essentially the same. Sermons were scarcely more frequent than they had been in earlier times ; men and women went to confession, paid their Easter offerings, looked up to the parish priest as their spiritual guide. Most of these priests had been in their livings when Edward VI. was crowned, had complied with Queen Mary, had re- complied with Elizabeth, accommodated their new to their ancient faith, doubtless retained many of their old Romish practices and predilections, and were winked at by their bishops, especially in distant provinces. How could it be otherwise, unless the rulers of the Church were prepared to see nine-tenths of the parishes of England deprived of all spiritual instructors, and churches and congregations falling into irremediable decay ? Though Puritanism was creeping on with rapid and stealthy pace towards the close of the century, it numbered as yet a con- temptible and unnational minority. It had not yet contrived to inspire men with one intense and narrow sentimentalism ; to force upon their unwilling accept- ance its straitened notions of a straitened creed. It had not yet taught them to look with sour suspicion on all forms of amusement as ungodly ; or to suspect Popery in mince-pies and cheerful village festivals. So ancient customs remained as they had remained ages before. Christmas, with its pageants and pro- cessions, its mummeries and its good fare ; Twelfth Night, Midsummer’s Eve, St. Mark’s, St. Valentine’s, and All Saints’ days, were duly observed. No induc- tive philosophy had yet appeared to disturb the popular belief in fairies or in witchcraft, in ghosts or in spectres ; no ruthless geographer had stripped “the still-vexed Bermoothes” of its Ariel and its Caliban, or buried the wand which raised such potent marvels. By the ingle-nook, especially in country towns like Stratford — half a century behind the Metropolis, and exempt from those changes to which a great metro- polis is subject — men still talked of elves and goblins, and still devoutly believed in them. They repeated from father to son the local traditions of their own and the neighbouring counties. They knew the battle- fields of Tewkesbury ; they had heard tell of the encounter when the Severn hid its head in fear of the blood-stained combatants. Kenilworth and Coventrj', Gloucester and Northampton, were studded with historical associations. And many an anecdote, many a feat, a trait of manner, of person, and character, of English worthies, would thus be handed down which would be sought in vain in the Chronicles of Hall or of Hollinshed. For, unlike the wars of modern times, the civil wars of England were fought by the tenants and labourers of the lord, who returned at the close of the struggle to the plough and the spade, to live and die, in most instances, at no great distance from the scene of their military exploits. So sons and grandsons learned to repeat the stories of meek Henry VI., of the fierce and forbidding Richard III., of the hateful De la Pole, and the gracious Edward. Living in times which were favourable to poetry — and to dramatic poetry especially, when men were still inspired by the excitement of past and of passing events, — when individual characterism had not yet crystallized into one dull uniformity by fixed systems of education or engrossing commercial monoiooly, — when the old had not so far been parted from the new as to lose its vitality and fade into the unrealism of archaeology — these dramatists, with all their ability and advantages, produced nothing which could serve beyond the amusement of the hour ; not a passage, not a line, not a single happy expression, could take root in the memory of their contemporaries, and secure eternity for itself among the unwritten tra- ditions of the people. Whilst unnumbered hosts of Shakespeare’s phrases, often the most plain and art- less, the least obviously remarkable for any peculiarit}" of sound or antithesis, or for those factitious qualities which catch the undisciplined fancy, have grown into household words, only less numerous than those of the Bible, it is- impossible to trace any similar fortune in Shakespeare’s contemporaries, or his immediate E 2 28 Life of Shakespeare. predecessors. And as it is inconceivable that any possible revolution of public taste should ever give life or animation to their writings, it is equally im- possible to conceive that any revelations of science, before which the proudest of our present achievements must fade like the baseless fabric of a vision, should consign Shakespeare to oblivion, or render him less worthy of the profoundest study, less fresh, less striking, less instructive, less philosophical, in the truest of all senses, than he is now, than he was before gravitation or the laws of Kepler were discovered, when Copernicus was esteemed no better than a dreamer, a new but ignoble Phaethon, driving the earth about the sun. Yet these men’s labours were not without their use. Steeped in classical literature, deriving their rules from classical models, guiding their judgment exclusively though with small discrimination, by classical autho- rity, they inexorably determined the form and style of dramatic art. They developed the poetical capa- bilities of the English language. They refined it to those higher purposes of poetical literature for which, even at their time, and still more emphatically before their time, it was considered wholly unsuitable. The world was still divided between the learned and the laymen. Latin, associated with the religious sym- pathies and scholastic supremacy of the middle ages, had not yet resigned its special dignity as the only organ of inspiration. It had entered on a new and more splendid career by the revival of letters and the labours of the revivalists. The English tongue — rough, confused, unmetrical, the tongue of business and of the vulgar — was, in the lips of the educated, a condescension to vulgar Ignorance and infirmity — a Pharisaic uncleanness, which the scholar and the gentleman must contract in his associations with the unlearned, in his pity for their blindness, but of which he washed himself, up to the very elbows, in his com- munion with his fellows. From 1585, when Shakespeare is supposed to have taken up his residence in London, to 1598, we have very few data to determine the poet’s circumstances, conduct, or specific employments. That he was as- siduous as an actor and a successful dramatist from the very first is clear from the concurrent testimony of the times, scanty as it is. Already, in 1598, a writer named Francis Meres, “ Master of Arts of both Universities,” in a “Discourse of English Poets,” mentions Shakespeare in the following terms: — “ Shakespeare, among the English, is the most excellent in both kinds (tragedy and comedy) for the stage. For comedy, witness his ‘Gentlemen of Verona,’ his ‘ Errors,’ his ‘ Love’s Labour’s Lost,’ his ‘ Love’s Labour’s Won,’ his ‘ Midsummer’s Night’s Dream,’ and his ‘Merchant of Venice.’ For tragedy, his ‘Richard II.,’ ‘Richard III.,’ ‘Henry IV.,’ ‘King John,’ ‘Titus Andronicus,’ and his ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ ” From the language of Meres it would be naturally inferred that he did not propose to give a complete list of Shakespeare’s writings in 1598, but of those only which bore out his assertion that he was “ the most excellent ” in tragedy as well as in comedy. Thus, within twelve or thirteen years after Shake- speare’s arrival in London, Meres could point to twelve plays of Shakespeare so generally well known and universally applauded that, in spite of the popu- larity of Greene, Peele, and Marlowe, or even Ben Jonson, Meres made no scruple to claim for Shake- speare the palm as a dramatist above all his con- temporaries. Even admitting that Meres’ list is com- plete, this would give a year for a play ; and for such plays as “ Richard II.,” “ King John,” “ Henry IV.,” the “ Midsummer’s Night’s Dream,” and “ Romeo and Juliet.” But this is not all; for, in 1593, Shakespeare had given to the world his two poems of “Venus and Adonis ” and “ Lucrece.” Prefixing to the former the following dedication addressed to Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, and written in the quaint and somewhat stiff and affected style common to all the personal compliments, and, indeed, more or less, to all the prose writing of that age : — Right Honourable, — I know not how I shall offend in dedi- cating my unpolished lines to your Lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden : only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather, and never after, ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your Honour to your heart’s con- tent ; which I wish may always answer your own wish, and the world’s hopeful expectation. — Your Honour’s in all duty, William Shakespeare. In the course of the following year he produced his “ Lucrece,” which he dedicated to the same nobleman in a similar strain of formal, though still warmer, courtesy. The love 1 dedicate to your Lordship is without end ; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours ; what I have to do is yours ; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Y'ere my worth greater, my duty would show greater ; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with all happiness. — Your Lordship’s in all duty, William Shakespeare. Both the poems won the immediate and the marked admiration of his contemporaries, and nearly all the writers of his time who allude to his literary labours class them among the most characteristic mani- festations of his genius. The “ Venus ” passed through 4 > 1 i.' . ' T AX' » 1' Af',:*’ ^ . , -’ >‘ * > ' * ■j < ' ^'•'4''^ 4*jj '.A'jt w •'H: ivyi' ,’T ■r. c/ *.< V-.vV ;• ' *» “ TT • ij t. . • riW ... . . -»('.■ *.■••*> STJ ■' "" ^ "^' *.M ** ' ^ '*'*^ * * "* ii. ■« * 4^ . . '■'•‘■\ - ■ f^'-- . « -. ' .T' ‘ ■ V c'^ 'a-;' ■■‘,»v»'V> • * 4»- . » i. 4 ; » • ■ ' •■-■. , , , V. '• . ■ ‘ - ' '•’^*'Vr '^'V • "* ' 1 .>>:;■ r ^ : '4s Vv V. ■ ‘v%$ ,1 t» ^r, " ’ " ’ ■’•■v/ , 1» * V , •• v<»' V' •4^'.* J .'f! ■ .' 4' • ' r . '' vV ij ♦ r .. •»■ * JT •*■ .• 'Ttjc * K*? '• :.^ . - •! ^'V I ** ,’«r * "* /t • . 1 *M^«s V-.’i"'W,.vlf*-' ■• * • '* .. ^ .' ‘ >r' *.w^‘ r. • • • * '■ ■ ,4.C>>*?ii?*:-'-*b. .. t i.r, »-.v ■■ ■'ir'V . ’ ■' '■ '.iuV/.v •4!<. J**.. • > = ■ ■• ' *” s • ' 4>4. . '' * ^ . >»• ' • V> ’ <•/. 4j|v 1 VV . ^ ) • ' ■ ' f", / t- ' x< ■'• • > •'“■'•I*' » W-.-' /x* ' •. •* 'J *■ « V. 4v'i' *• c» ■r.v ,t .?»••,»'■ ■\i'. /■ , ,, ',(’. A -f '• f ■ • ■1'». / 'y • ■■ > ;.• V 4. >* A >» li ■%' .'•1 1 « > *■ , "Vi-. f * * ‘ «'< ''.,•1(55 'JM-' ' ^ ■ j;' ' - ,<7'«V’ A* .V *.*. ' I ’M i. •f .'» i!k .'M; . ' > ' n} ■ V ' •';<'■•?■■ ‘■.,-i=^/^V ,rr -.» >.'••" ' ‘VT-^O'a. , .' 5», • j', .. r • .i# ..A, •»9 V ■**•.; r V I •. 4* * .Y/ ‘ >..V ,v V -4v/ . - vC -■• »,.»," T» ».•■' «' « • i ,.T • ■ ' ■» .. ■>. > ■•. .'ie: . •*i4 y,*-/» ■* V ivifr ' . K«r'-'v i'*‘ ^ *,• y». 29 Stratfo7'd-on-Avon — Holy Trinity CImrcJi. a fifth edition in the year 1602 ; and a fourth edition of the “Lucrece” was published in the year 1607. Lord Southampton is entitled to the high honour of having been the warmest and the most generous of the early patrons and friends of Shakespeare, and a story is handed down to the effect that “ Lord Southampton at one time gave him looo/., to enable him to go through a purchase that he had a mind to.” It is not at all unlikely that there is good foundation for this story ; though that sum would have been equivalent at that period to four or five times the same amount at the present day. The Globe Theatre was most probably built in the year 1594 ; and Mr. Collier conjectures that Lord Southampton “presented Shakespeare with 1000/., to enable him to make good the money he was to produce, as his proportion, for its completion.” Lord Southampton was born on the 6th of October, 1573, and was, therefore, Shakespeare’s junior by more than nine years. We find a remarkable proof of his love for the drama in the following passage in a letter addressed by Rowland Whyte to Sir Robert Sydney, on the nth of October, 1599: — “My Lord South- ampton and Lord Rutland come not to the court : the one doth but very seldom : they pass away the time in London merely in going to plays every day.” The Earl of Essex was at that time kept in confine- ment at the Lord Keeper’s, in consequence of his having returned from Ireland without the permission of the Queen, and it was, no doubt, that circumstance which induced his friend Southampton to absent himself from court. The wonder with which we naturally contemplate the magnificence of Shakespeare’s dramatic achieve- ments is vastly increased by all the knowledge we obtain of the circumstances under which they were accomplished. The stage was in his time under the ban of a large portion of the nation, and to the profession of an actor a positive discredit was univer- sally attached. It is true that both Queen Elizabeth and James I. patronized the drama to some extent ; but they do not appear to have ever assisted at the performance of plays, except in their own palaces, or in other private residences. To the same period must be ascribed the Three Parts of “ Henry VI.,” and at least so many of the Sonnets — if they were written, as some critics imagine, at different intervals— as to justify Meres’s encomium of them, which we make no scruple of repeating here, were it only to disabuse some of our readers of the notion that Shakespeare’s contemporaries were insensible to his greatness. “As the soul of Euphorbus,” says Meres, “ was thought to live in Pythagoras,' so the sweet, witty soul of Ovid lives in mellifluous and honey-tongued Shakespeare. Witness his ‘Venus and Adonis,’ his ‘Lucrece,’ his Sugred Sonnets among his private friends.” The rapidity with which Shakespeare poured forth his wonderful conceptions, the meteor-like flight with which he emerged from the throng of his contem- poraries, the endless profusion of his genius, the most consummate judgment and knowledge of his art and its requirements, combined with a luxuriant energy and a teeming imagination that seemed utterly inex- haustible, might well have provoked the wonder and envy of his less favoured rivals. Their most careless and irregular productions, thrown off under the pres- sure of necessity or on the impulse of passion, could not keep pace with the creations of Shakespeare, in whom the deliberate energy, the studiousness, the conscious reticence of the artist are as conspicuous as the fertility of his imagination and the impetuosity of his genius. “In beauty,” says Lord Bacon, “ that of favour is more than that of colour ; and that of decent (becoming) and gracious motion, more than that of favour.” In the plays of the poet’s contemporaries, it is the beauty of colour, of graceful and harmonious language ; their stateliness never moves ; the action never advances, or by fits and by intervals, like human mechanism. In Shakespeare, on the other hand, the action, like Nature, is ever advancing, never still ; rapid, but imperceptible ; “ like the summer grass — unseen, but crescent in its faculty.” Even in the feeblest of his plays — if such a term can be applied to them — this quality is remarkable. He gets over the ground with astonishing rapidity — an excellence lost to us, who read Shakespeare in the closet, and never see him on the stage. He never loiters or lingers in some cool nook, or wastes his time over subordinate details, or turns out of the current to strand in muddy or shallow water, enamoured of his own wit or his own sublimity. But as he rushes straight on in a fuller, more rapid, and ever increasing volume, sparkling and dashing like a river, all sorts of colours, of sights and sounds, grave and gay, pathetic and joyous, glittering and transparent, dance along the surface ; now gleaming fathoms deep to the bottom, now startling and now amusing, now freezing us with emotions of uncontrollable delight, now calling up tears from some sealed and unbroken deep within us. That the judgment of his contemporaries, though often faulty, was not always at fault is clear from the notices illustrative of Shakespeare in the scattered literature of his times. It is certain that the great- ness of his genius as a dramatist was recognized from the first. Greene would scarcely have warned his associates of their approaching eclipse by this “ new Johannes Eactotum,” alluding to the universality of the poet’s genius, had Shakespeare’s audience shown themselves indifferent to these his earliest productions, or slow in recognizing their sterling merits. Nor would Meres have ventured to speak of Shakespeare Life of Shakespeare. 30 in such high terms of admiration had not popular estimation guided and sanctioned his judgment. We have, besides, the admission of Chettle, a contempo- rary playwright, the friend of Greene, and editor of his “ Groatsworth of Wit.” In defending himself from his supposed share in Greene’s malevolent in- sinuations, which had given just offence to Shake- speare, Marlowe, and others, Chettle says d “ With neither of them that take offence was I acquainted ; and with one of them (Marlowe) I care not if I never be. The other (Shakespeare) whom at that time I did not so much spare as since I wish I had ; that I did not I am as sorry as if the original fault had been my fault, because myself had seen his demeanour no less civil, than he excellent in the quality he professes. Besides, divers of worship have reported his upright- ness of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing that approves his art.” These testimonies alike to his genius and the spot- less integrity of the poet’s conduct, so different from that of most contemporary dramatists, are unimpeach- able. The poet’s worldly prosperity kept pace with his reputation. The occupation of an actor alone was a profitable one in those days, and with ordinary prudence was sure to lead, not only to competence, but to wealth. Thus, in Greene’s “ Never Too Late,” in the inter- view between the Player and Roberto (i. e. Greene), on the latter asking how the Player proposed to mend Roberto’s fortune — “ Why, easily,” quoth he, “ and greatly to your benefit ; for men of my profession get b}' scholars their whole living.” “ What is your profession.^” said Roberto. “Truly, sir,” said he, “ I am a player.” “ A player ! ” quoth Roberto, “ I took you rather for a gentleman of great living ; for if by outward habit men should be answered (judged), I tell you, you would be taken for a substantial man." “ So am I, where I dwell,” quoth the Player, “ reported ; able at my proper cost to build a wind- mill.” He then proceeds to say that at his outset in life he was fain to carry his “ playing fardel,” that is, his bundle of stage properties, “ a foot back ; ” but now his show of “ playing apparel ” would sell for more than 200/. In the end he offers to engage Greene, to write plays for him : “ for which you shall be well paid, if you will take the pains.” We know from the sequel that though Greene was extravagant, and never to be trusted if paid beforehand, “ seldom he wanted, his labours were so well esteemed.” See the quotation in Dyce’s preface to “ Works of Greene,” p. 20, ed. 1861. But with his occupation as an actor Shakespeare combined that of a successful and prolific dramatist ; and the two together soon raised him from the condition of a needy adventurer to that of a well- to-do possessor of lands and houses. Morning and night meet, as in nature, in the poet’s writings — the comic and the tragic. In the full flush and luxuriance of his powers, he rises upon us, bright, lively, and jocund as the dawn ; we know not where he will lead us in the abundance of his poetical caprice, what stores of mirth and wanton wiles, what brilliant and ever-changing hues will sparkle, dazzle, and allure us in his ambrosial course. But that bright morning — unlike the morning of many of the poet’s contemporaries — goes down in a solemn and glorious sunset, canopied with clouds of gold and purple. For the plots of his comedies Shakespeare was chiefly indebted to French and Italian novelists; for his histories to Hall and Hollinshed ; and for his classical plays to the “ Lives of Plutarch,” translated by North, and to such versions of the classical authors as had appeared in the earlier part of the sixteenth century. Old English authors, plays, chronicles, and ballads furnished him with the groundwork of his tragedies ; and this readiness of the poet to lean on the invention of others, however feeble and meagre, rather than rely on his owur superior resources for the framework of his plays, has often been quoted as an instance of his carelessness, or at best of his unwillingness to venture upon untrodden ground. He preferred to use the wonderful superstructure of his genius on incidents already familiar to his audience, trusting to his power of investing them with a new character, and a more profound or more lively signifi- cance, than, like many of his contemporaries, owe his popularity to the horror, the extravagance, the involution, or the novelty of his story. But may not the true solution of this hankering after old and established facts and traditions be found in Shake- speare’s intense realism ^ He had a profound reve- rence — not Aristotle more so — for everything that carried with it the stamp of popular recognition. His strongest convictions, the highest dictates of his taste and feelings, are not always proof against this “settled purpose of his soul.” He clung to it with an intense earnestness, as if to abandon it was to commit himself to a sea of doubt and perplexity — a wandering maze without a footing. To Bacon it was enough that any theory, any opinion, any fact should be generally accepted to be unceremoniously rejected^ “ A mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure and if truth itself were to become popular, it must be plenti- fully alloyed with falsehood.' The perfect self-con- fidence of Bacon, who at sixteen passed judgment on Aristotle, as barren and unfruitful, might set him above the necessity of any such fixed points. But then Bacon’s vision was limited ; his mind and atten- tion, earth-fixed and bound up in the investigation of material laws, were in no danger of wandering and ' Or, as Bacon pithily expresses it ; Anctoritiis pro veritate, non Veritas pro auctoritate sit.” Stratford-on-A von — . being lost in the region of infinite space, as the eye glanced “ from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.” His ethical creed might have been comprised in the words, “ Man delights not me, nor woman either.” But Shakespeare, with stronger, wider, kindlier sym- pathies, as untrammelled by systems as Bacon, work- ing out for himself, in solitude and unassisted, as true a method of inquiry, as profound an observer as Bkcon, as convinced as he of a divine order underlying and overlapping the seeming confusions of this world, dreaded quite as much as Bacon could do the danger of mistaking for realities the dreams of his own phantasy. So, wiser than Lord Bacon, and more truly philosophical, instead of despising popular be- lief, instead of ignoring it, as if it had no foundation except in falsehood, Shakespeare accepted it, probed the foundation on which it rested, brought into clearer light the half or whole truths enveloped in it, and gave form and coherent meaning to the confused and incoherent creeds of mankind. Perhaps also to one who carved out for himself a wholly untrodden path like Shakespeare, who had little of the countenance of the learned or the confi- dence of rules and systems to support him, a fixed faith somewhere was the more indispensable. He was living in a sceptical age, when the freshness of faith and that confidence in the rising glories of Pro- testantism, which had inspired the poetry of Spenser, were fast dying out. Many had relapsed into Ro- manism, many had fallen into atheism ; the narrow creed of Puritanism could not accommodate itself to the larger sympathies and growing intelligence of the age. It viewed with the utmost consternation and alarm divines like Hooker securely trespassing beyond the pale of its doctrinal conventionalism, and philosophers like Bacon poring over “ the book of God’s works,” as a derogation to the “ book of God’s word.” Sympathizing with Romanism and Pro- testantism so far as they were human, Shakespeare could not be wholly satisfied with either. There was something deeper than either, perhaps, common to both. And whilst the creeds of neither are distinctly enunciated in his writings, whilst neither can claim him as an especial advocate, both recognize in him a sincere and profound religious element, distinct, posi- tive, permeant through his writings ; not thrust for- ward to catch applause or gild a popular sentiment, but a pure, dry, vestal light, equally free from fanati- cism on one side and from infidelity on the other. Unfixed, unsettled in their faith, the men of the poet’s days looked uneasily at the progress of induc- tive philosophy ; at its bold innovations, its new tests, its contempt for antiquity, its hatred of Aristotle. How could the faith hold its ground against the invasion of science ? How could men immersed in the contemplation of second causes recognize their I/o/jy Trinity Church. 31 sole dependence upon Him who is the First Cause ? Philosophy might assure them that the province of revelation and the province of science were distinct — that philosophy was as remote from divinity as the terrestrial is from the celestial globe. But the divine felt, and felt truly, that it was not a question of distinct and incommensurate jurisdiction ; not whether the field of science might be occupied with earnest and hardy inquirers, and the field of divinity be culti- vated in the authorized mode ; but how far was it likely or possible, that men who had been rigidly trained to one method of investigation, who deferred to one tribunal, from which they admitted no appeal in matters of science and material utility, could or would divest themselves of these ingrained habits, when not science but faith was concerned.' So then, as now, the question was. How shall religion stand before the new philosophy ? How shall reason be reconciled with revelation ? For this neither divine nor philosopher could discover the true solution. What help may be found for it in Shakespeare, we will not undertake to say. But if the clearest and the largest transcript of human experience can contribute to that solution, that help is to be found in the dramatist. The data with which he has supplied us are as sound, as certain, as unerring a basis for axioms and deductions, as those of the inductive philosophy ; like them, are founded not on notions, but observa- tion, and have been gathered from as wide a circle of experience. We argue, and we justly argue, upon the characters in a play of Shakespeare, or any sentiment propounded by them, or their exhibition of passions and feelings, not as the poet’s creations, but as historic realities. In reading or studying his dramas, we feel that we are surrounded not by phantoms, but by flesh and blood closely akin to ourselves ; and no hard deduction of logic, no persuasion of any kind, can make us feel or think otherwise. They may be Romans, or Celts, or Italians, or Jews, living in the dark backward and abyss of time which we cannot realize, compacted of influences long since extin- guished ; yet whatever they are they are men, to us more real than those who pass before our eyes, or even tell us their own histories. For if our most intimate friends, throwing away all self-restraint and self-respect, were willing to turn themselves inside out for our inspection, neither would they be able to do it, nor we to read or understand the confused characters we should find there without some inter- preter. We should be just as much unable to distin- guish the writing, as the inartistic mind does a natural landscape, or an unscientific one a complex piece of machinery. Shakespeare supplies the scene, supplies * Bacon anticipated the evil ; see Pref. to “ Organon ” p. xcvi ; ancicipated, but no otherwise provided against it, except by pointing out the danger. 32 Life of Shakespeare. the machinery, and gives with them the interpretation ; not from his own conceit or any preconceived theory, not because he has any certain scientific bias or philosophic views of art, which he is desirous to work out and set before us in their concrete forms, but because he “held the mirror up to nature.” That “ nuditas animi" which Bacon considered indispen- sable for the acquisition of truth, with which the severest study must begin and end, Shakespeare possessed more than most men. Unlike the drama- tists from the University, who came to their task with imperfect notions of the rules of classical antiquity ; unlike Ben Jonson, who thought that a dramatist must be dieted by system, and feed and fast by regimen, to attain perfection, it was the reproach of Shakespeare that he owed nothing to art and all to nature. The reproach was unfounded ; but if it be meant that he brought to his task no dry theories, no poetical dogmas, no personal prejudices to interfere with his strict and rigid observance of nature, the remark is just. No poet is more impersonal ; no poet mixes up with his most admired and successful creations less of his personal predilections. It is impossible to select any one character from the whole range of his dramatis personae of which it can be said, this was a favourite with the poet. In the full torrent of his wit or the excitement of his eloquence, in the successful exhibition of retributive villainy or the defence of injured innocence, he stops at the due moment, never overstepping the modesty of nature. The scene closes, the character is dropped, the moment the action requires it ; and however just or true or exquisite the conception, it falls back into the void of the past from which it had been summoned, often to the greatest regret of the reader and spectator, but with no apparent regret on the part of the poet. Artists and painters in general have their likes and their dislikes, as strong but not always the same as the admirers of their works ; they can rarely work successfully without such prejudices. It is natural for the artist to fall in love with his own creations, and natural that what he loves and all admire, he should repeat in various shapes again and again. But in Shakespeare this never happens. His is the truth- fulness and dispassionateness of a mirror. And if the unfeeling, the erring, and the vicious are not unmiti- gated monsters in his pages, it is because they are human ; not because his sympathies would have con- cealed their deformities. It is because even the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head. The utmost vice in this life is not beyond redemption ; the utmost virtue not without its flaws. But it may be thought that these remarks are in- applicable to those creations of the poet which lie beyond the pale of human experience ; such as the witches, fairies, and ghosts introduced into some of his plays. Yet it is worth observing how scrupulous even in these cases the poet is of adhering to popular tradition. Only, as popular credulity is always falling before that idolon (against which Bacon protests), of determining the unseen by the seen, the spiritual by the material, Shakespeare is on his guard against this error. He raises the vulgar witches, with their popu- lar familiars, the cat, the toad, the storm, and the sieve, into spirits of evil, surrounded by spiritual terrors and endowed with spiritual agencies. The fairies have persons, occupations, passions that are not human, nor are they susceptible of human attach- ments. The same may be said of Ariel and Caliban ; the one above, as the other is below humanity. The habits of each are solitary, not social, and both are alike unsusceptible of friendship or gratitude. The Ghost of Hamlet’s father is another instance of the poet’s wonderful mastery in uniting the vulgar and sublime. How was the poet to combine in the same personality the earthly father calling for revenge with the disembodied spirit — the substantial with the un- substantial — the “ sans eyes, sans teeth, sans every- thing,” with voice, motion, armour t But the popular notion of purgatorial fire, and the half-earthly, half- unearthly creed of the Middle Ages, on which he readily laid hold, were a great assistance. Here too the genius of Shakespeare delights in triumphing over the union of impossibilities. The ubiquity of the Ghost is so harmonized with his local pejrsonality, that the reader detects no incongruity in the composition. Besides, when he is first discovered, as the sentinels tramp up and down the parapet of the castle, w'ith the sea roaring fathoms down at the foot, who can tell whether the Ghost comes striding along close by in the impalpable air, or on the firm ground t That Shakespeare should have acted this part we can well believe, for none but he could have conceived how a spirit would or should talk. The characters least within the bounds of human probability are Falstaff and Richard HI. : the former as the ideal humourist, the type and catholic original of those eccentricities, which Shakespeare’s contemporaries tried to draw, but could not ; the other as the type of what sixty years of intestine fever and bloodshed must produce — the poisonous fungus generated out of political, social, moral anarchy, all combined. Both are what Bacon would have called the monads of nature. Shakespeare, then, had no idealisms which he wished to present in visible forms beyond those which would be found in the e.xact representation of nature. If critics have since professed to discover in his works the profoundest revelations of art and science, that is because those arts and sciences are found in the facts presented us by the poet, and not because they were consciously present to his mind. It is this continued freshness and nudity of mind. 33 Stratford-on-Avon — Holy Trinity CJmrch. ever open to the impressions of experience, that pre- vents him from falling into that mannerism or unity of style and treatment, into which, with his single exception, all other poets and artists have fallen. His mind is never stationary ; he never contemplates his subject from one point of view exclusively ; he is not a narrator, a spectator ab extra, or an epic poet ; but he is intensely dramatic ; that is, his own per- sonality is sunk entirely in that of his creations. In this respect he is superior to any poet that ever lived, not merely in the complete embodiment of the cha- racters he introduces, but in their number and variety. Every known region of the globe is laid under con- tribution ; Greeks, Romans, Italians, French, English- men, Asiatics, Egyptians ; ancient, modern, mediaeval times. Every rank, every profession, every age and condition of life passed before his eyes ; — once seen never to be forgotten ; once stored up in his memory, as in a treasure-house, to be summoned forth, not as pale, colourless spectres : — What story coldly tells, what poets feign At second hand and picture without brain. Senseless and soulless shows : — but with their full complement of humanity, action, thought, feelings, words, infinite .shades of expressions and emotions. More true also to nature than other dramatists, Shakespeare’s characters are never the mouthpieces of uniform sentiments, passions, or temp- tations ; they are not the living embodiments of abstract qualities which never vary and never grow. The masterless passion is shadowed off by endless varieties and transitional modes of feeling. It is deposed from its seat by inferior motives, and restored when the due time comes. The brave are not always brave ; the cruel not always unmerciful. Though the unity of the character is never lost sight of, it is not a stagnant uniformity ; but grows and developes with the action, and is acted on by the circumstances of the play, or the influences of others. As in the infinite variety of nature, form, colour, smell, contour, grow harmoniously and simultaneously, and all from the original organism of the plant — are not, as in human mechanism, the result of successive efforts — so it is in Shakespeare. The unity of the character is never lost in its diversity ; the widest apparent divergence from its primitive conception and outset may be traced back, step by step, with the accuracy of a natural and necessary law. Action, speech, expression, the colour and metre of the diction, grow out of the original unity of the character, and yet mould themselves with plastic ease to every diversity of its sentiments and feelings. It is this ever-varying posture of mind, this flexi- bility in the style, structure, and colour of his lan- guage, adapting itself to every movement of the thought, that makes it so difficult to determine, on any common measure of the poet’s mind, or beyond the general power they exhibit, what is genuine in his plays and what is not so. Conclusions de- rived from some supposed type of style and metre must not be trusted. How can they be, unless we shall have ascertained beforehand in any given case, that they are incompatible with the poet’s purpose or conception } Homer felt no difficulty in putting heroic words and heroic hexameters in the mouth of Thersites ; a catalogue of the ships falls into the same rhythm with the anger of Achilles. The com- mon soldier, or the barbarous Thracian, utters his thoughts in as choice Greek, as musical and as sono- rous as QEdipus or Agamemnon. But with Shake- [ speare, the style and metre are moulded by the thought, and not the thought by the metre. Common ; every-day thoughts fall into prose ; Dogberry and Sir Toby Belch rise not into the solemnity of verse. Falstafif and the humours of Eastcheap are the prose and the comedy of Henry IV. and the palace. That such a writer as this could not fail of being popular with his countrymen we may well believe, and the evidence that he was so is full and un- questionable. It is clear from the repeated references made to him in the writings of contemporary poets, it is clear from the influence he exercised upon the stage ; for however inferior subsequent dramatists might be to the great original, it requires very little reading to discover how much in style, composition, regularity of structure, delineation of character, they were indebted to his example : it is clear from the number of his dramas, from the repeated editions of them during his lifetime, from the competition of the booksellers to secure the right of publishing them, from the admiration, not to say the envy, of those to whom theatrical audiences were far less indulgent. Nor was this popularity purchased by vicious con- descension to the popular tastes : — With such a show As fool and fight is. The occasional coarseness of Shakespeare is the coarse- ness of strong Englishmen, who “ laughed and grew fat” over jokes which might shock the delicacy and moral digestion of more refined ages, or more sensitive and sentimental races, but did them no more harm mentally than their tough beef dressed with saffron and ambergris, or their hundred-herring pies, or tainted red-deer pasties, interfered with their bodily health. Think of an age that mixed sugar with its wines, and frothed its sack with lime ; Homeric in its achievements and in its appetites, in its tastes and its enterprises ! But Shakespeare is refinement itself as compared with some of his contemporary, and with most succeeding dramatists. He does not rely for interesting his hearers on the display of moral or mental horrors, or questionable liaisons, in which so 34 Life of Shakespeare. much of the ancient Italian fiction abounded. If we except “ Pericles,” and “ Titus Andronicus,” there is throughout his plays an absence of the monstrous and the horrible ; and the poems of the poet are wholly employed in delineating action and character, either within the ordinary reach of probability, or sanctioned by historical evidence. But his popularity is also evidenced by his extra- ordinary profusion. For six and thirty years succes- sively he kept possession of the stage, and rivetted his claims to popularity by producing seven and thirty dramas within that period : not of mere farce or incident — not hasty, incorrect, and tumultuous — but as much superior to the dramas of others in their ease and elaboration, as for still higher qualities of genius. Not one of these plays was reproduced in another form : scarcely a word or sentence in any of the thirty-seven can be traced to other sources. This is as wonderful as anything else in Shakespeare. Other poets “toil after him in vain.” Tears and laughter, the inseparable attendants of surpassing genius, are equally and at all times, and in all degrees* at Shakespeare’s command. The wit of Dogberry and the sailors in “The Tempest the wit of kings in “ Henry IV.” and “Love’s Labour’s Lost;” the wit of Falstaff and of Hamlet ; native wit; philosophic wit ; the wit of the fat and of the lean man ; wit in the half-glimmerings of dawning reason, and of reason trenching upon mad- ness ; the wit of temperaments like Mercutio’s ; of topers like Sir Toby Belch ; of mischief like Maria and Cleopatra ; of confident villany like Richard HI. — all these, and many more, flow from him with in- exhaustible fertility. Nor is the pathetic and the tragic exhibited under less multiplicity of forms. Nor is it less sudden and meteoric than the wit. The reader is taken by surprise. It flashes on him with the suddenness and vividness of an electric flash. He is prostrated and melted by it, before he is aware. Whether the reader be prepared for what is coming, whether the poet in the consciousness of his might forewarns him that he may be forearmed, or whether he darts on him by surprise, the result is the same, it is inevitable. In Falstaff’s ridiculous exploits, though the whole scene is inexpressibly comic, the burst, “ By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye,” &c., is as sudden and surprising as if it had flashed upon us out of the darkness, — out of the most serious scene ; as in “ Lear,” whilst every fibre of the heart is quivering with irrepressible emotion, one expression in his dying speech, “ Pray you, undo this button,” standing conspi- cuous in its commonplaceness against the rest, sweeps away the little self-restraint that remains to us with the suddenness and overwhelming force of a torrent. Yet as if the ordinary construction of the drama did not furnish employment sufficient for his un- bounded energies ; — as if he could not crowd his conception and his characters within the allotted range, Shakespeare is fond at times of multiplying difficulties. For it is to this tendency that must be attributed the double action in some of his plays. The principal action has its shadow in some con- temporaneous and subordinate one. In “ Hamlet,” avenging his father, is another Hamlet ; in “ Lear,” exposed to filial ingratitude, is a Gloster equally ill- treated and betrayed by his bastard son — the moral and the natural bastardy. Lesser examples may be seen in “ Taming the Shrew,” and in Falstaff per- sonating Henry IV., a comic presentment of the serious interview between that king and his son ; — as if the poet mocked his own tragedy by comedy, or lowered it by an obtrusive parallelism of inferior scale and interest. What writer besides Shakespeare would have ventured on so hazardous an experiment 1 Yet, always certain of his victory, always sure of producing whatever effect he desires to produce, he is indifferent to any waste or profusion of his powers. How, indeed, could there be waste where the wealth was inexhaustible } And as the theme of the poet extends to the farthest verge of human experience, and sounds all the surging depths of human consciousness, Shake- speare is equally master of the many moods and voices in which that consciousness expresses itself. He is dramatic, as in “Henry IV.;” or epic, as in “Richard II. ;” or lyric, as in “Romeo and Juliet ;” melodramatic in “Titus Andronicus ;” farcical in the “ Comedy of Errors ; ” subjective and philosophic in “ Hamlet ;” a master of scholastic logic in Pandulph; of rhetoric in Mark Antony; pastoral in Perdita ; elegiac in “ Cymbeline.” His songs are unapproachable ; there is nothing like them, or near them in the whole range of English literature, abundant as that literature is in this species of composition. And the beauty of these songs consists not merely in the sentiment or the exquisite adaptation of the expression, or their display of broad and obvious feelings, as opposed to those subleties and metaphysical conceits of a later age, or in their musical structure — all of which they have in perfection ; — but also in their appropriateness to place and occasion. As contrasted also with later lyrics, the impersonality of Shakespeare is as strictly preserved in his songs, as in other parts of his dramatic writings. It seems then absurd to suppose that such a poet wrote in vain for the nation, — that he was not appre- ciated in his own day. Such insensibility would have been a national disgrace and misfortune, — a proof that Shakespeare was not an Englishman, or had materially failed in understanding his countrymen ; — the only race he did not understand. But, putting aside the praises of Ben Jonson and others, how stand the facts } The folio of 1623 was followed by the folio of 1632, and with it the sonnet in Shakespeare’s praise Or^lBINAL SKETCHES Enr\ THIS WDP\I\ BY H . B. CLEMENTS . 35 Stratford-^Lpon-A von by Milton. The poem entitled “ Allegro represents Shakespeare as the favourite, not merely of the Puritan poet, but as the general favourite of the stage. It is Milton that accuses Charles I. of making Shakespeare the companion of his solitary hours. One hears again of the memorable Hales of Eton, of the accomplished Lord Falkland, of the favourite Cavalier poet Sir John Suckling, discussing at their social meetings the merits of Shakespeare as compared with the Greek dramatists. Though Shakespeare is familiar with all forms of human experience ; ranges at will through all the provinces of history ; reinvests with life the most confused, apathetic, shrivelled traditions, and compels Time “ to disgorge his ravine be it Lear or Macbeth, Caesar or Cymbeline, he is never antiquarian. The presentment of his characters is essentially English ; their stage is the sixteenth century. This is the mean- ing of his anachronisms, the puzzle and the triumph of small critics. The whole range of past experience had been gathered up, not as broken remnants, to be pieced together by the laborious ingenuity of a learned mechanism ; — not to be flaunted in the eyes of readers and spectators as an ornament to be proud of ; — but fused and melted by the Intense imaginations and lofty aspirations of the poet’s times, into the reach and limits of the present. The past appeared to the apprehension of that age, as much related to itself, as much a part of the common humanity of Englishmen in the reign of Elizabeth, as the Armada itself, and the perilous rivalry of the two female sovereigns. To Ascham, Cicero and Demosthenes were not merely statesmen of all times, but of his own times especi- ally — as much as Burghley and Walsingham, or even more so. The whole age was dramatic to the core. In set speeches, in conversation, in grave state-papers, the mythical and the legendary were mixed up with the historical and the present, as if all were alike real, and all intimately blended with one another. The vivid imaginations of men supplied the connecting links, and brought the picture home to the mind, instead of setting it off at greater distance, as is the tendency of modern criticism to do. The common ground of all was the supposed humanity of all ; varying, indeed, according to time, climate, circum- stances, but in all essentials one and the same with themselves and those around them. And this habit of self-identification with past events and principles, with ancient races and parties, with the same zeal and vehemence as they infuse into current politics, has ever been, as it was then, characteristic of English- men. If Shakespeare availed himself of this feeling, he did much to foster it. He is comparatively care- less of the tiring-room of antiquity, — indifferent, like his age, to the niceties of archaeological costume. Humanity is to him, wherever found, of all time, and equally at home to him in all its fa.shions ; and though Holy Trinity CJmrch. he never deals with abstractions, like Spenser, seldom idealizes like him ; his realism rests on a broader basis than local manners, personal eccentricities, or historical minuteness. Whilst his Greeks, his Roman.s, his Italians, his ancient Britons, are true to their race, their country, and their times, and could never be transposed, as in other dramatists, without utter con- fusion to the whole meaning and conception of the poet ; they are intelligible to us, because the poet makes us feel that, however remote they may be, they are of our own flesh and blood ; of like passions, temptations, strength, and weakness. It may be said of his genius what Hamlet says of the ubiquity of his father’s Ghost, hie et 2ibiqiie ; the nbiqiie is never disjoined from the hie ; however wide the rays of his poetical fiction travel,*they all converge in one point. Shakespeare is above all other men the Englishman of the sixteenth century. Moreover, dramatic poetry, especially dramatic poetry of the Shakespearian drama, is the poetry of Englishmen ; first, because it is the poetry of action and passion, woven out of the wear and tear of this busy world, rather than the poetry of reflection ; and, secondly, because it is peculiar to Englishmen not merely to tolerate all sides and all parties ; but to let all sides and parties speak for themselves, and to like to hear them. It is part of the national love for fair play, part of its intense curiosity and thirst for seeing things and men from all points of view and in all aspects, of preferring to look at things as they are, even in their nakedness and weakness, to any theories, or notions, or systems about them. Not only is the drama most pregnant with this variety, but no drama is ever successful that neglects it. The fair play in Shakespeare, is scarcely less remarkable than the infi- nite range of his characters. There is no absolute villany, — no absolute heroism. He takes no sides ; he never raises up successful evil merely for the plea- sure of knocking it down, and gaining cheap applause by commonplace declamations against it. He pro- nounces no judgment ; in most instances he commits his characters wholly to the judgment of the spectator. This judicial impartiality is another characteristic of the nation, that hates dogmatism in all shapes, in juries or in judges, in the pulpit or the senate. One more characteristic has to be noticed which stamps Shakespeare especially as an Englishman, and an Englishman of the reign of Elizabeth : and this is the prominence given by him to his female characters, their variety, and the important part assigned to them in his dramas. It has been said that, if Shakespeare paints no heroes, the women are heroines. If in Spenser the knights fail to accomplish those enter- prises which are accomplished for them by the other sex ; if Una and Britomart and Belphoebe are the guides and the advisers of their different champions ; F 2 Life of Shakespeare. 36 if male courage is unsexed except it be regulated by purest devotion to women ; in Shakespeare, Imogen, Hermione, and Desdemona stand forth in shining contrast to their faithless, wavering, and suspicious consorts. But in Spenser woman is little else than ideal ; she is too good for human nature’s daily food and daily infirmities. Shakespeare’s women are strictly real ; their very infirmities, like the tears of Achilles, are not a foil, but an ornament to their perfections ; their failings spring from the root of their virtues. The criticism which condemns Desdemona and Juliet is as monstrous as it is mistaken. The women in Shakespeare suffer as they suffer in the world and in real life, because, in following the true instincts of true nature, they fall sacrifices to the experience, the selfishness, the caprices of the stronger sex. If parents are careless and imperious like Brabantio, or impure and worldly like old Capulet and Polonius, Shakespeare saw too well that such muddy cisterns, hide their corruptions as they will, cannot prevent the subtle contagion of their own ill-doings from staining the pure fountains of their household. Youth pierces through their flimsy disguisings with a sharp and divine instinct wholly hidden from their purblind vision. With the exception of Lady Macbeth, there is no female character in Shakespeare which comes near the atrocities of lago or Richard III. The fierce natural affection of the injured Constance excuses her occasional excesses ; the weakness of Ann, like the palpitating bird, is not proof against the basilisk-like power and fascination of Richard III.; Miranda falls in love at first sight with a being she has dressed up in her own perfections ; even Lady Macbeth has steeled her nature above that of her sex in admiration and de- votion to her husband. Look out upon the world, and the same is going on every day : woman complying with the law of her creation, and man transgressing his. And as Shakespeare differs from previous dramatists in his conception and representation of the real, not the colourless ideal, of woman ; he equally differs from Ben Jonson, from Beaumont and Fletcher, with their mere animal instincts and their coarser delineation of the purpose and destiny of woman. Nor is it merely in the purity, refinement, and feminine grace of his female characters that the great dramatist so far sur- passes his contemporaries ; for “ The Virgin Martyr ” of Massinger, and “The Faithful Shepherdess’’ of Fletcher, though rare and unusual, have something of the same excellence ; but the woman’s nature and instincts are never lost sight of by the poet. If faith, love, constancy, purity, are beautiful even in the abstract, they are more beautiful still in the concrete ; and the hardness of the abstract is rounded off when they are presented to us not as fixed and isolated qualities or all-absorbing influences, but in the tender- ness, weakness, and alternations of flesh and blood. I The heroism of strength may delight the hero- worshipper ; but the heroism of weakness is far more human and attractive. The faint resolve, springing forth as a tiny blade from unpromising ground, — now seemingly contending unequally against the blast, — now gaining unseen strength and vigour from the con- test ; — the moral purpose exposed to the storm of passion and the inveiglement of temptation ; like a frail craft at sea, — now hidden by the waves, — now apparently foundering hopelessly, — then rising to the storm, — creating in the spectator the contending tumults of pity, hope, and fear, — appealing to the strongest and inexhaustible sympathies in the hearts of men, — these are the triumphs of the dramatic poet. And it is in this exhibition of moral strength and weakness, whether in man or woman, that Shakespeare excels, even in his less complex characters ; whilst in the impersonation of a character of more complex elements, such as Cleopatra, any comparison of the great master with any writer of fiction, in ancient or in modern times, would be altogether absurd. What must that imagination have been that could conceive, or that power which could so perfectly delineate, three such types of womankind as Juliet, Desdemona, and Cleopatra } Whose but his, who, without losing his own personality, seeing with other men’s eyes, and feeling with other men’s feelings, understood the uni- versal heart of man, and has become the tongue and voice of universal humanity } The Parish Register. To return to Holy Trinity Church and its Shakespeare belong- ings. We first take an inspection of the Parish Register of Stratford, a book of considerable thick- ness, the leaves formed of very fine vellum, and which contains the entries of Baptisms, Marriages, and Burials. The Register commences with the record of a baptism, on the 25th of March, 1558. All the entries, whether of Baptisms, hlarriages, or Burials, are without exception in the same hand- writing, from the first entry, to September 14 in the year 1600. But although the Register is thus only a transcript for forty-two years, there is no reason to doubt its authenticity and perfect correct- ness ; for each page is signed by Richard Bifield, the vicar, and four churchwardens, in attestation of its being a correct copy. Ah, Bifield, thou wert indeed a painstaking son of the Church, a worthy occupant of the vicarial office, and the world owes thee much for thy exactitude ! Richard Bifield was vicar of THE PARISH REGISTER. f -VT ' ' ■ ; I , ^ •' f a ■ • ■' ■ *■ •1' ,. , _ , . A - f ,i» fc- *■». ’A- < \.A ^ ^ I . • 1 < ••* • I "■ f JF.- . - K b‘ V . i--. • .t, . 1 K- .» R. '3 \ ':-5 'v r 1 rr ?<• ' ! • b 1 -• ;.v- ^..f’ - - ■ ■ ■*■;. !■ ■ ^^' i’Jj .r"'V v,.--. < ' ' ■' " -iiLA- , ^ }" ?r» • ' ., 14 ,, ft- fc. P 1* ■■ i"^ pl'»''‘ rir;' &?i? -, ‘ : ■ ^ -•• r . .**• U V"'' ' >:*•■- rA'-'i, '^'.. '''^S ^ . ah. , • ^. ■ wi|_ '•• Jsri.kjik^'‘;- • viL‘\4y 'r,-'l ft* n , K ' : €i 'v'« ■S it- f . — &■' •r- S £ ■V N' j * r ‘ - >W-‘ . H . i 1 '4v, 11 lv;' «’it ■,, ,.*^, ■,, •»v Vv ■» r*:, it V. luj '■\ - !-; ^ W » < .^.'* ® SjA;- > ■ ■ !*>' . »-:* ■ '■ ( ^ »’r- ‘"4; '.f ' '?. i. .’i' ■ I',", « '"■'■‘'A:’- .'V, . ]•* d'y. ' )/ j.r Ml- INTKIilOl! Ol' 01,1) l'ilAl:NEL HOl'SE. 01,1) OlbUtNKI, HOUSE, FOU.MEIU.V EXISTIN'C ,VT HOLY TIUXITV. WEI,F01!U t'llUliOH. 01,1) CIlUIiCH ,VT HAMPTON MOV. 37 Stratford-tipon-A von Stratford from 1596 to 1610; and to him we are, in all probability, indebted for this transcript of the original Registers, which were most likely on loose leaves of paper. Subsequently, the Registers are not made at the time of the performance of the Church- office. They generally appear to be entered monthly ; but sometimes the transcript seems to have been made at longer intervals. The signatures of the church- wardens of the year is then affixed to each page as a testimonial of its accuracy. The following list is transcribed verbatim from this Register Book carefully preserved in the Vestry fire- proof safe. It includes all the entries which are important. BAPTISMS. 1558 Septeberis Jone Shakspere daughter to John Shakspere. 1562 December 2 Margareta filia Johannis Shakspere. 1564 April 26 *Gulielmus filius Johannes Shakspere. 1566 October 13 Gilbertus filius Johannis Shakspere. 1569 April 15 lone the daughter of John Shakspere. 1571 Septeb 28 Anna filia Magistri Shak- spere 1573 [1573-4] March ii . . . Richard sonne to Mr. John Shakspeer. 1580 May 3 . Edmund sonne to Mr. John Shakspere. 1 583 May 26 Susanna daughter to William Shakspere. 1584 [1584-5] February 2. . . Hamnet & ludeth sonne and daughter to Willia Shak- spere. ■Holy Trinity Church. There are then entries of Ursula, 1588; Humphrey, 1590; Philippus, 1591 ; — children of John Shakspere (not Mri). MARRIAGES. 1607 Junii 5 John Hall gentlema & Su- sanna Shaxspere. 1615 [1615-6] February 10 . . Tho : Queeny tow Judith Shakspere. , BURIALS. 1563 April 30 Margareta filia Johannis Shakspere. 1579 April 4 Anne daughter to Mr. John Shakspere. 1596 August II Hamnet filius William Shak- spere. 1601 Septemb 8 . . . , . . Mr. Johanes Shakspeare. 1608 Sept 9 Mayry Shaxspere, Wydowe. 1612 [1612-13] February 4 • • Rich. Shakspere. 1616 April 25 Will: Shakspere, Gent. 1623 August 8 Mrs. Shakspeare. 1649 July 16 Mrs. Susanna Hall, Widow. 1661 [1661-2] Feb. 9 . . . . Judith, Uxor Thomas Quiney. It appears by the Register of Burials, that Dr. Hall, one of the sons-in-law of William Shakespeare, was buried on the 26th November, 1635. He is described in the entry as “ Medicus peritissimus.” The Register contains no entry of the burial of Thomas Quiney. Elizabeth, the daughter of John and Susanna Hall, was baptized on February 21, 1607 [1607-8] ; and she is mentioned in her illustrious grandfather’s will. The children of Judith, who was only married two months before the death of her father, appear to have been three sons, all of whom died before their mother. * The Entry of Shakespeare’s Birth is thus recorded in the Parish Register of Stratford Facsimiles of the Entries of Baptisms of Shakespeare’s Children in the Parish Register. relay 2.6 -tiykyXhcm. Cs,(Hai!eiS> Facsimiles of Entry of his Daughter Susanna’s Marriage with Dr. Hall. Life of Shakespeare. 8 The Entry of Judith’s Marriage with Thomas Queeny. Facsimile of Burial Entry of the Poet’s only Son, Hamnet, who died August i ith, 1596. Entry of Burial of the Poet’s Father, who died September 8th, 1601. Of the Poet’s Wife, who died August 8th, 1623. Of his Daughter Susannah, Widow of Ur. Hall, who died July i6th, 1649. Of his Daughter Judith, \Vife of Thomas Quiney. The Passing A\yay of the Mighty Spirit is thus entered for April 25TH, 1616:— Stratford-tipon-Avo7i — Holy Trinity Church. 39 In the Vestry of Holy Trinity, we have the very Baptismal Font from which Shakespeare received the Holy Baptism of the Church. This battered sacred relic is priceless in the eyes of every lover of the Great Bard. It has passed through many trials and vicis- SHAKESPEARE S FONT. ^ situdes even to banish- ment from the Holy Temple, and the ignominy of having had a spurious rival set up in its place. Possibly in the reign of some fox-hunting vicar ignorant even that his church chancel held the poet’s bones, and who may never have troubled himself to decipher the inscription beneath his monument, the font was banished in exchange for one more to his taste. The parochial accounts of Stratford show that about the middle of the seventeenth century a new font was set up, and the true font from which Shake- speare had been baptized was banished. After many years it was found in the charnel-house, close to the poet’s resting-place. When this was pulled down it was moved out into the open churchyard, and from thence taken by one of the parish clerks of the time and used as the trough of the pump at his cottage. Marvellous therefore is it that the holy vessel should have resisted so well as it has done, the impious usages and ill-treatment it has endured. Very fortunately the good town of Stratford has ever had some resident devotee to kindle and keep alive the memory of him who shall perpetuate it to the end of time. A Captain Saunders of the Warwickshire Militia was the guardian angel who rescued Shakespeare’s baptismal font. All honour to him and renown attend the corps in which he served, for he has done his native town, and the world, good service. One Clerk Edmund is said to have been the sinner who desecrated the font to his own house-pump purposes. He was induced to part with it to a stonemason in the town, who never concealed the treasure, or denied the means through which he acquired it. The gallant militia officer is described by Halliwell as “ an enthusiastic admirer of everything relating to Shakespeare, and perhaps he possessed one of the most authentic articles connected with the Bard. In his garden was the fragment of the old font of the church which Captain Saunders found in a stone- mason’s yard at Stratford, and was acknowledged as having been removed from the church.” The late Mr. W. O. Hunt, Town Clerk of Stratford, and who throughout his whole lifetime was untiring in his Shakespearian researches, and who especially devoted himself to get at truth in all local matters connected with the great author’s home, and residence at Stratford, has left papers showing clearly that he purchased the font of a Mr. Thomas Heritage, who had bought it of Captain Saunders’s representatives. Mr. Hunt pre- sented it to the then Vicar, Mr. Granville Granville, and thus earned the credit of a real benefactor, such as will ever honorably associate his name with this vene- rable and sacred relic. While in Captain Saunders’ possession, the Old Font was placed on top of a pedi- ment, a piece of the Stratford Market Cross, and stood in the Captain’s garden adjoining his residence, situate in Church Street. After the font had passed through its several stages of sa- crilegious suffering, and reached again its old home in Holy Trinity Church, the base of the old Market Cross on which it had rested when in captivity and durance PEDIMENT OF OLD MARKET CROSS IN GARDEN • L\ • > AT SHAKESPEARE’S BIRTHPLACE. Vile m the Captain s garden, was set up into a pretended position and exhibited to the credulous as the Shakespeare font. The genial-hearted and accomplished scholar, Dr. Collis, the present Vicar of Stratford, an earnest helper in all that concerns the memory of the mighty dust lying under the Chancel of the temple entrusted to his charge, is firm in his conviction as to the identity of the Old Font in Holy Trinity Church. He says it is beyond all doubt the Font in which Shakespeare was baptized. Dr. Collis writes ; — “ Stratford-on-Avon, November 12, 1873. “Dear Major Walter, — You are quite correct in your views regarding the old broken and damaged Baptismal Font in the vestry of my church. It is the actual Font in which William Shakespeare was bap- tized on the 25th April, 1564, two days after his birth. Its architectural features show it to be of the date of the latter half of the fifteenth century. I should say about 1480. Most probably it was put in by old Dean Balshall, my excellent predecessor, who rebuilt the Chancel out of his own revenues. A modern and not very good copy of it was put up in the church in 1840, on the false idea that then pre- vailed of ‘ restoration,’ and the old one was taken away just as the then ‘ restorers ’ copied the canopies of Thomas a Becket’s Sedilia, and threw away the old historic ones, with all their mediaeval history. To my predecessor, Mr. Granville Granville, is due the bringing back this Old Font into the church. He also set up the fragments of Becket’s Sedilia in the church. About three years since I removed them into the vestry, to preserve them from the corroding of the weather, and the depredations and scribblings of the Smiths, Jones, and Robinson caste, and hope some day to restore them to their original place. “ Yours faithfully, J. D. COLLIS, D.D. “ Vicar of Siraiford-tipon-Avon, “To Major James Walter, Wallasey, Birkenhead.” 40 Life of Shakespeare. The Birthplace, Henley Street. The employment followed by John Shakespeare in Stratford has been variously represented. Aubrey, writing about 1680, informs us that he was a butcher; and Rowe, who furnished a life of Shakespeare in 1709, states that the poet’s father was “a considerable dealer in wool.” In an action brought against him in June, 1556, for payment of eight pounds, he is de- scribed as “John Shakspeare, glover;'’ and on 19th November of same year, we find him summoning a person, named Henry Fyld, for unjustly detaining a quantity of barley. Again, in the Chamberlain’s accounts for 1564, the following entry occurs : “Item, payd to Shakspeyr for a pec tymbur iijs and in 1579, he is styled “Johannes Shackspere de Stratford upon Avon in comitatu Warwici From these seemingly discordant entries, we may infer, with tolerable probability, that he originally practised the trade of a glover, but gradually abandoned it for agricultural pursuits, including the rearing of sheep and cattle, dealing in wool, and, possibly, also occa- sionally slaughtering stock for the Stratford market. Prosperity for a long period attended all his under- takings ; he married, as we have seen, the heiress of Asbies; filled successively one civic office after another, and, in 1 569, reached the topmost round of the ladder in being elected high bailiff, or chief magistrate of Stratford. Yet, notwithstanding his undoubted business capabilities, and his wife’s gentle blood and nurture, it remains an incontrovertible fact, that neither John nor Mary Shakespeare could write their own names, and were unable to attest their signature except by the humble device of a mark. The house in Henley Street, where John Shake- speare resided, and where his world-renowned son, William, was born, forms, of course, one of the prin- cipal objects of interest in Stratford. Tradition has constantly pointed it out as the birthplace of Shake- speare ; and in a deed recently discovered, and dated January, 1597, whereby John Shakespeare conveys to George Badger a strip of ground extending from Henley Street to the Guild-pits, the house now shown as the birthplace, is alluded to as then in the tenure or occupation of the former. We thus possess a testimony in this question which, as Mr. Halliwell remarks, “viewed in connexion with tradition and later authorities, may fairly be considered decisive.” This interesting edifice, the resort of so many pil- grims, appears to have been the residence of John Shakespeare, first as tenant, and afterwards as pro- prietor, from his first settlement in Stratford till his death in 1601. On the latter event taking place, it passed to his son William, by whom it was devised in succession to his daughters Susanna and Judith. Lady Barnard, daughter of the former, and the last surviving descendant of Shakespeare, bequeathed the tenement to Thomas Hart, grandson of the dramatist’s sister Joan ; and in his family it continued till 1806, when it first passed by sale into the hands of a stranger. Originally, it seems to have formed one residence, but it was afterwards divided — the western part, containing the birthroom, being latterly tenanted by a butcher ; whilst the eastern portion formed an inn, called the Swan and Maide^ihcad. It is now national property, having been purchased by public subscription, and has been very carefully and success- fully restored to what may be regarded as approxi- mating very closely to its original condition in the time of Shakespeare. The house, separated as it has been from the ad- joining buildings, and forming now the only antique- looking building in the street, attracts at once the eye of the visitor. It is one of those old edifices which are still frequently to be seen throughout Warwick- shire, composed of a framework of timber, formed in squares, with the intervening compartments filled up with mud and plaster, or, as it is locally termed, “wattle and dab latticed windows, and high-pitched gable roofs. Behind, is what may be termed a Shake- I spearian garden, being planted with the flowers to which the poet has alluded in his dramas. No one now lives in the edifice ; but a lady custodian, who shows the premises, resides in a neighbouring house, entered from the garden. In order to secure as far as possible the preservation of the house in which Shakespeare was born, no fire or candle is allowed in the building, which is, however, protected from the destructive influence of damp by hot-water pipes, introduced from a tenement at a little dis- tance. The visitor to this venerable structure enters first, from the street, an apartment which was long occupied as a butcher’s shop, but in Shakespeare’s time must have served as a kitchen. Through this he passes into a chamber behind, the “dwelling-room ” of the family; and from this, a narrow staircase, terminating in an equally contracted landing-place, leads to the room where the great bard is believed to have been born. That it was in this particular apartment where he first saw the light we have only the assurance of general tradition, but may therewith rest contented, j without demanding demonstrative evidence of the fact. The room fronts the street, being immediately over the kitchen, and is very low in the ceiling, which is little more than seven feet above the floor. The walls and ceiling alike are covered with visitors’ names in such density, that it is literally now impos- sible for an aspirant to this description of fame to find a clear space on which to inscribe himself, even were not such strivings after immortality most pro- perly and positively interdicted. 41 The Chapel of the Gtiild and Grammar School. Thousands upon thousands have thus left a record of their visit to this world-honoured house. The first feeling at seeing these records is one of indignation. To think every piece of vulgar obscurity must obtrude his or her name before men’s eyes in such a place ! We must charitably remember that these names, how- ever humble, obscure, and unknown their owners might be, were but the indications of the power which genius still holds over the heart of the world, and how thoroughly the great power of his spirit, whose body, once here, has glorified this house for ever, had fermented, possessed, and influenced the hearts of men. Thus these otherwise miserable scribblings, became, in some sort, a measure of the wondrous fame of him to whose memory they are a silent tribute of love, esteem, and veneration. Not one of these names — names some of them dear to the world, and known to fame ; most of them utterly obscure — but testifies to the universality of hero worship, and to the fact that men will venerate what is truly venerable. Here at the shrine of poetry the pilgrims from the east and the west, from the north and the south — across the waters of the Atlantic — from all parts and all places, the obscurest hamlet and the most renowned capital — come and offer, by their mere presence, the highest homage of which their natures are capable, to the memory of him, whose works Carlyle declares to be of more value to us and to the world, than is our Eastern Empire. Thus, these rude pencil-marks, these signs of the cacoethes scribcndi, usually so disgusting, and generally to be deprecated, become, in this instance and in this place, testimonies of the extraordinary power of him who could throw around us such a charm, as to make the house in i which he was born a shrine for evermore. The ground-floor of the eastern portion of the Shake.speare house, formerly the Swan Inn, is now fitted up as a Museum, in which various valuable documents and collections of the various editions of Jiis works and all obtainable commentaries, also pre- sumed relics, are deposited. The majority, however, of these latter are of a most questionable character. The most valuable in the collection is a gold signet ring, which was picked up, in the year i8io, by a workman in a field adjoining Stratford Churchyard, and is presumed, though certainly on no demonstrable grounds, to have belonged to Shakespeare. It is inscribed with the initials W. S., with a true lover’s knot between the letters. There are also the originals of various legal documents relating to Shakespeare and his family, on which much of the information that we now possess regarding him is founded. There is also the celebrated letter from Richard Quincy (whose son afterwards married Shakespeare’s daughter), ask- ing for a loan of thirty pounds, and this is the only letter addressed to the poet knowm to exist. An ancient desk, removed from the Grammar School, and traditionally said to have been that at which Shake- speare sat, is likewise exhibited ; also a phial hermeti- cally sealed, containing juice from mulberries gathered from Shakespeare’s mulberry-tree, cut down in 1758 ; and a variety of interesting articles discovered in making the excavations^ at New Place, where the latter years of his life were passed. The Chapel of the Guild and Grammar School. In the seventh year of the reign of Edward VI. a royal charter was granted to Stratford for the incor- poration of the inhabitants. It recites — “ That the borough of Stratford-upon-Avon was an ancient borough, in which a certain Guild was theretofore founded, and endowed with divers lands, tenements, and possessions, out of the rents, revenues, and profits, whereof a certain free Grammar School for the educa- tion of boys there was made and supported.” The charter further recites the other public objects to which the property of the Guild had been applied ; that it was dissolved, and that its possessions had come into the hands of the king. The charter of incorporation then grants to the bailiff and burgesses certain properties which were parcel of the possessions of the Guild, for the general charges of the borough, for the maintenance of an ancient almshouse, “and that the free Grammar School for the instruction and education of boys and youth there, should be there- after kept up and maintained as theretofore it used to be.” It may be doubted whether Stratford was bene- fited by the dissolution of its Guild, Its Grammar School was an ancient establishment. It was not a creation of the charter of Edward VI., although it is popularly called one of the grammar schools of that King, and singularly enough was the very last school established by him. The people of Stratford had possessed the advantage of a school for instruction in Greek and Latin (which is the distinct object of a grammar school), from the time of Edward IV., when Thomas Jolyfife, in 1482, “ granted to the Guild of the Holy Cross of Stratford-upon-Avon all his lands and tenements in Stratford and Dodwell, in the county of Warwick, upon condition that the master, aldermen, and proctors of the said Guild should find a priest, fit and able in knowledge, to teach grammar freely to all scholars coming to the school in the said town to him, taking nothing of the scholars for their teaching.” Dugdale describes the origin of guilds, speaking of this of Stratford: — “ Such meetings were at first used by a mutual agreement of friends and neighbours, and particular licences granted to them for conferring lands or rents to defray their public charges in respect G 42 Life of Shakespeare, that, by the statute of mortmain, such gifts would otherwise have been forfeited.” In the surveys of Henry VIIL, previous to the dis- solution of religious houses, there were four salaried priests belonging to the Guild of Stratford, with a clerk, who was also a schoolmaster, at a salary of ten pounds per annum. They were a hospitable body, these guild- folk, for there was an annual feast, to which all the fraternity resorted, with their tenants and farmers ; and an inventory of their goods in the 15 th of Edward IV. shows that they were rich in plate for the service of the table, as well as of the chapel. The priests of the Guild having been driven from their home and their means of maintenance, the chapel for a time ceased to be a place of worship. It was partly rebuilt by the great benefactor of Stratford, Sir Hugh Clopton ; and after the dissolution of the Guild, and the establish- ment of the Grammar School by the charter of Edward VI., the school was in all probability kept within it. There is an entry in the Corporation books, of February 18, 1594-5 — “At this hall it was agreed by the bailiff and the greater number of the company now present that there shall be no school kept in the chapel from this time following.” In associating, there- fore, the schoolboy days of William Shakespeare with the free Grammar School of Stratford we may be sure that he there commenced his education and pursued it to its academical end. Avoiding all speculation and doubt, for there cannot be any, this was unquestionably the building in which Shakespeare received his education. In his early infancy, a fearful pestilence or fever visited Stratford, carrying off, in less than half a year, above two hundred persons out of a population of less than two thousand. A poetical enthusiast will find no diffi- culty in believing that, like Horace, Shakespeare reposed secure and fearless in the midst of contagion and death, protected by the Muses to whom his future life was to be devoted. Sacra Lauroque, collataque niyrto, Non sine dis animosus infans. Ah ! indeed fearful was that pestilence, the plague, which, but two months after the baptism of Shake- speare, ravaged the quiet old town of Stratford-upon- Avon ; and, instead of a yearly average of some forty deaths, two hundred and thirty-eight souls, in the space of six months, were swept into eternity. The infant who was afterwards so to bless the world, was happily spared, nor does any of his family appear to have perished. We can well imagine the anxiety of mind which Master John Shakespeare would cx^De- rience for the safety of his family ; and how Mary Shakespeare would trewiblingly kiss her sleeping babe, as the deep toll of the passing-bell daily smote upon her ear, announcing to all that : — Another soul from earth has fled. Another body with the dead Beneath the sod was numbered. Possibly dewdrops never stood more conspicuous on the lupin, or raindrops thicker on the hawthorn, than did the tears in that mother’s eyes. But dear as their infant son doubtless was to them, as he nestled in their arms, they dreamt not what more than monarch they were rearing for mankind. One may also imagine the boy Shakespeare, when a few more years were past, listening devoutly as his mother related the particulars of that dreadful plague, as they sat around the fire on winter nights, when the storm-king ruled supreme without, and the blazing logs crackled merrily on the capacious hearth ; whilst ever and anon the stool of the future poet of mankind would advance an inch or two nearer to the cheerful blaze. Even to read the narrative of a plague is enough to curdle one’s blood ; how terrible, then, must it have been to those who witnessed the dreadful mortality ! Doubtless his mother’s vivid reminis- cences of that awful event. Would harrow up his soul ; freeze his >t>ung blood ; Make his two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres ; His knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end. Like quills upon the fretful porcupine. Ha7/tlet, Act i. Scene 5 . It is worthy of remark that Erasmus, more like a philosopher than a divine, ascribes the frequent visits of the plague in England to the want of cleanliness amongst the people. The Chapel of the Guild, situate close upon New Place, and seen from almost every window of the house, and from every part of the garden, abutting forward as it does on the corner of the street, is, in great part, a perfect specimen of the plainer ecclesi- astical architecture of the reign of Henry VII., a building of just proportions and some ornament, but not running into elaborate decoration. The interior now presents nothing very remarkable, though upon a general repair of the chapel in 1804, beneath the whitewash of successive generations, was discovered a series of most remarkable paintings ; some in that portion of the building erected by Sir Hugh Clopton, and others in the far more ancient chancel. A very ela- borate series of coloured engravings of these paintings has been published. From the defacement of some of the paintings, they had evidently been partially de- stroyed by violence, and all attempted to be obliterated in the progress of the Reformation. But that outbreak of zeal did not belong to the first periods of religious change ; and it is most probable that these paintings were existing in the early years of Elizabeth’s reign. Those rude paintings must have produced a powerful effect upon the imagination of Shakespeare. Many 4 | 43 The Chapel of the Gtdld and Gram77iar School. of them in the ancient chancel constituted a pictorial romance, — the history of the Holy Cross, from its origin as a tree at the Creation of the world, to its rescue from the pagan Cosdroy, king of Persia, by the Christian king, Heraclius, and its final exaltation at Jerusalem, — the anniversary of which event was cele- brated at Stratford at its annual fair, held on the 14th of September. There were other pictures of saints, and Martyrdoms ; and one, especially, of the murder of Thomas a Becket, which exhibits great force, without that grotesqueness which generally belongs to our early paintings. There were fearful pictures, too, of the last Judgment; with the Seven Deadly Sins visibly portrayed, the punishments of the evil, the rewards of the just. Surrounded as he was with the Memorials of the old religion, — with great changes on every side, but still very recent changes, how impos- sible was it that Shakespeare should not have been thoroughly imbued with a knowledge of all that per- tained to the faith of his ancestors ! Carlyle says that Catholicism gave us Shakespeare. Charles Knight, however, steps in here and adds : — “ Not so, entirely, Shakespeare belonged to the transition period, or he could not have been quite what he was. His intellect was not the dwarfish and precocious growth of the hot- bed of change, and still less of convulsion. His whole soul was permeated with the ancient vitalities — the things which the changes of institutions could not touch ; but it could bourgeon under the new influ- ences, and blend the past and the present, as the ‘ giant oak ’ of five hundred winters is covered with the foliage of one spring.” The building which formed the Stratford Grammar School in Shakespeare’s time still exists, and with comparatively slight alterations, and is employed for the same purposes. We hardly need remark on the deep interest it possesses to every true Shakesperian. It is a long, low structure, with a projecting upper story, which contains the school-rooms, divided by a partition into the Latin and the Mathematical schools. These present very much the appearance which they must have exhibited in the sixteenth century. The lath and plaster by which the old timbers of the roof were concealed have been removed. In a chamber to the rear of the school, on the same floor, and belonging to the same architectural era, the Corporation of Stratford held its meetings. Descend- ing to the ground-floor, we enter, beneath the school- room, the old Guildhall, where, in Shakespeare’s time, plays used to be acted. The apartment behind is now used as an armoury for the Rifle Volunteers. Here, amid guns and bayonets ranged in stands around the walls, in the centre of the room, until very recently, was a long table, on the top of which ex- tended an antique “shovel-board,” said to have been the identical board on which Shakespeare and his companions used to play at that primitive game in the Falcon Tavern, an ancient hostelry of the Eliza- bethan era, though now with modernized front, still existing on the opposite side of the street. Beside it formerly stood another venerable relic, much in vogue as a penal appliance in bygone days, but whose us« in more civilized times has become all but obsolete, — . the terror of vagrants and petty delinquents, in whose amenities the doughty Sir Hudibras and his Squire Ralph became involuntary participators, — the decayed worm-eaten stocks of the Corporation of Stratford ! Among our illustrations will be found sketches of each of the School-rooms, the Guildhall, and Council Chamber, taken expressly for this work by H. B, Clements ; also of the back of the Schools, in- cluding the Guild Chapel, by Edgar Flower, one of Stratford’s most prominent citizens, an accomplished gentleman, who, to naturally gifted artistic powers, unites the earnest Shakespearian devoteeship of his brother Charles of Avon Bank. It is not possible to imagine Shakespeare a petted child, chained to home, not breathing the free air upon his native hills, denied the boy’s privilege to explore every nook of his own river. We would imagine him communing from the first with Nature, as Gray has painted him : — The dauntless child Stretch’d forth his little arms and smiled. The only qualifications necessary for the admission of a boy into the Free Grammar School of Stratford were, that he should ^be a resident in the town, of seven years of age, and able to read. The Gramm.ar School was essentially connected with the Corporation of Stratford ; and it is impossible to imagine that when the son of John Shakespeare became qualified by age for admission to a school where the best edu- cation of the time was given, literally for nothing, his father, in that year, being chief Alderman, should not have sent him to the school. We assume, without any hesitation, that William Shakespeare did receive, in every just sense of the word, the education of a scholar ; and as such education was to be had at his own door, we also assume that he was brought up here in the Free Grammar School of his own town. His earlier instruction would therefore be a prepa- ration for this school, and the probability is that such instruction was given him at home. The letters have been taught, syllables have grown into words, and words into short sentences. There is something to be committed to memory : — That is question now ; And then comes answer like an Absey-book. King John, Act i. Scene i. In the first year of Edward VI. was published by authority “The ABC, with the Pater Noster, Ave, G 2 44 Life of Shakespeare. Crede,and Ten Commandementtes in Englysshe, newly translated and set forth at the Kynges most gracious commandement.” But the ABC soon became more immediately connected with systematic instruction in religious belief. The alphabet and a few short lessons were followed by the Catechism, so that the book containing the Catechism came to be called an A B C book, or Absey-book. Towards the end of Edward’s reign was put forth by authority “A Short Catechisme or Playne Instruction, conteynynge the Sume of Christian Learninge,” which all schoolmasters were called upon to teach after the “ Little Catechism ” previously set forth. Such books were undoubtedly suppressed in the reign of Mary, but upon the acces- sion of Elizabeth they were again circulated. A question then arises: did William Shakespeare receive his elementary instruction in Christianity from the books sanctioned by the Reformed Church } His father and mother were, beyond doubt, at the time of his birth, of the religion established by law. His father, by holding a high municipal office after the accession of Elizabeth, had solemnly declared his adherence to the great principle of Protestantism, — the acknowledgment of the civil Sovereign as earthly head of the Church. The child was brought up unquestion- ably in the opinions which his father publicly pro- fessed, in holding office subject to his most solemn affirmation of those opinions. The distinctions between Protestant and Romanist were then not so numerous or speculative as they afterwards became. But, such as they were, we may be sure that William Shake- speare learnt his Catechism from his mother in all sincerity ; that he frequented the church in which he and his brothers and sisters were baptized ; that he was prepared for the discipline of the school in which religious instruction by a minister of the Church was regularly afforded, as the end of the other knowledge i there taught. He became tolerant, according to the manifestation of his after-writings, through nature, and the habits and friendships of his early life. Probably his parents, in common with their neighbours, tole- j rated, and perhaps delighted in, many of the festivals and imaginative forms of the old religion, and even looked up for heavenly aid through intercession, without fancying that they were yielding to an ido- latrous superstition, such as Puritanism came sub- sequently to denounce. The transition from the old worship to the new, was not an ungentle one for the j laity. The early Reformers were too wise to attempt ! to root up habits, — those deep-sunk foundations of the past which break the ploughshares of legislation when j it strives to work an inch below the earth’s surface. Shakespeare speaks always with reverence of the [ teachers of the highest wisdom, by whatever name ! denominated. He has learnt, then, at his mother’s knee the cardinal doctrines of Christianity : he can read. His was an age of few books. Yet, believing, as we do, that his father and mother were well-edu- cated persons, there would be volumes in their house capable of exciting the interest of an inquiring boy, — volumes now rarely seen and very precious. Some of the first books of the English press might be there ; but the changes of language in the ninety years that had passed since the introduction of printing into England would almost seal them against a boy’s perusal. Caxton’s books were essentially of a popu- lar character ; but, as he himself complained, the language of his time was greatly unsettled, showing that “we Englishmen ben born under the domination of the moon, which is never steadfast.” Caxton’s Catalogue was rich in romantic and poetical lore — the “ Confessio Amantis,” the “ Canterbury Tales,” “ Troilus and Creseide,” the “ Book of Troy,” the “ Dictes of the Philosophers,” the “ Mirror of the World,” the “Siege of Jerusalem,” the “Book of Chivalry,” the “ Life of King Arthur.” Here were legends of faith and love, of knightly deeds and pain- ful perils, — glimpses of history through the wildest romance, — enough to fill the mind of a boy-poet with visions of unutterable loveliness and splendour. The I famous successors of the first printer followed in the same career ; they adapted their works to the great body of purchasers ; they left the learned to their manuscripts. What a present must “ Dame Julyana Bernes ” have bestowed upon her countrymen in her book of Hunting, printed by Wynkyn de Worde, with other books of sports ! Master Skelton, laureate, would rejoice the hearts of the most orthodox, by his sly hits at the luxury and domination of the priest- hood : Robert Copland, who translated “ Kynge Appolyne of Thyre,” sent perhaps the story of that prince’s “ malfortunes and perilous adventures ” into a soil in which they were to grow into a “ Pericles and Stephen Hawes, in his “ Pass Tyme of Pleasure,” he being “one of the Grooms of the hlost Honourable Chamber of our Sovereign Lord King Henry the Seventh,” would deserve the especial favour of the descendant of Robert Arden. Subsequently came the English “ Froissart” of Lord Berners, and other great books. But if these, and such as these, were not to be read by the child undisciplined by school, there were pictures in some of those old books which of them- selves would open a world to him. That wondrous book of “ Bartholomjeus de Proprietatibus Rerum,” describing, and exhibiting in appropriate woodcuts, every animate and inanimate thing, and even the most complex operations of social life, whether of cooking, ablution, or the ancient and appropriate use of the comb for the destruction of beasts of prey, — the child Shakespeare would have turned over its leaves with delight. “ The Chronicle of England, with the Fruit of Times,” — the edition of 1527, with 1 r »'/ 4 'f V I 45 The Chapel of the Guild and Grammar School. cuts innumerable, — how must it have taken that boy into the days of “ fierce wars,” and have shown him the mailed knights, the archers, and the billmen that fought at Poitiers for a vain empery, and afterwards turned their swords and their arrows against each other at Barnet and Tewkesbury ! — What dim thoughts of earthly mutations, unknown to the quiet town of Stratford, must the young Shakespeare have received, as he looked upon the pictures of “ The Boke of John Bochas, describing the Fall of Princes, Princesses, and other Nobles,” and especially as he beheld the portrait of John Lydgate, the translator, kneeling in a long black cloak, admiring the vicis- situde of the wheel of fortune, the divinity being represented by a male figure, in a robe, with ex- panded wings ! Rude and incongruous works of art, ye were yet an intelligible language to the young and the uninstructed ; and the things ye taught through the visual sense were not readily to be forgotten ! But there were books in those days, simple and touching in their diction, and sounding alike the depths of the hearts of childhood and of age, which were the printed embodiments of that traditionary lore that the shepherd repeated in his loneliness when pasturing his flocks in the uplands, and the maiden • recited to her companions at the wheel. Were there not in every house “ Christmas Carols,” — perhaps not the edition of Wynkyn de Worde in 1521, but reprints out of number } Did not the same great printer scatter about merry England — and especially dear were such legends to the people of the Midland and Northern Counties — “ A lytell Geste of Robyn Hode” ? Whose ear amongst the yeomen of War- wickshire did not listen when some genial spirit would recite out of that “lytell Geste” ? Lythe and lysten, gentylmen. That be of fre bore blode, I shall you tell of a good yeman, His name was Robyn Hode ; Robyn was a proud outlawe Whyles he walked on ground. So curteyse an outlawe as he was one Was never none y founde. The good old printer, Wynkyn, knew that there were real, because spiritual, truths in these ancient songs and gestes ; and his press poured them out in com- pany with many “ A full devoute and gosteley Treatise.” That charming, and yet withal irreverend, “ mery geste of the frere and the boy,” — what genial mirth was there in seeing the child, ill-used by his stepmother, making a whole village dance to his magic pipe, even to the reverendicity of the frere leaping in profane guise as the little boy commanded, so that when he ceased piping, he could make the frere and the hard stepmother obedient to his in- nocent will ! There was beautiful wisdom in these old tales, — something that seemed to grow instinc- tively out of fire bosom of nature, as the wild blos- soms and the fruit of a rich intellectual soil, uncul- tivated, but not sterile. Of the romances of chivalry might be read, in the fair types of Richard Pynson, “ Sir Bevis of Southampton and in those of Robert Copland, “ Arthur of lytell Brytayne and “ Sir Degore, a Romance,” printed by William Copland ; also “ Sir Isenbrace,” and “ The Knighte of the Swanne,” a “ miraculous history,” from the same press. Nor was the dram.atic form of poetry alto- gether wanting in those days of William Shake- speare’s childhood, — verse, not essentially dramatic in the choice of subject, but dialogue, which may some- times pass for dramatic even now. There was “ A new Interlude and a mery of the nature of the i i i i elements and “ Magnyfycence ; a goodly interlude and mery;” and an interlude “ wherein is shewd and described as well the bewte of good propertes of women as theyr vyces and euyll condicions ;” and “An interlude entitled Jack Juggeler and mistress Boundgrace and, most attractive of all, “A newe playe for to be played in Maye games, very plesaunte and full of pastyme,” on the subject of Robin Hood and the Friar. The merry interludes of the inde- fatigable John Hey wood were preserved in print, in the middle of the sixteenth century, whilst many a noble play that was produced fifty years afterwards has perished with its actors. To repeat passages out of these homely dialogues, in which, however homely they were, much solid knowledge was in some sort conveyed, would be a sport for childhood. Out of books, too, and single printed sheets, might the songs that gladdened the hearts of the English yeoman, and solaced the dreary winter hours of the esquire in his hall, be readily learnt. What countryman, at fair, or market, could resist the attractive titles of the “balletts ” printed by the good Widow Toy, of Lon- don, — a munificent widow, who presented the Sta- tioners’ Company, in 1560, with a new table-cloth and a dozen of napkins ; — titles that have melody even to us who have lost the pleasant words they ushered in ? There are ; — Who lyve so mery and make suche sporte As they that be of the poorer sorte ? and : — God send me a wyfe that will do as I say ; and, very charming in the rhythm of its one known line : — The rose is from my garden gone. Songs of sailors were there also in those days, — England’s proper songs, — such as “ Hold the anchor fast.” There were collections of songs, too, as those of “ Thomas Whithorne, gentleman, for three, four, or five voices,” which found their way into every yeo- man’s house when we were a musical people, and 46 Life of Shakcspcai'c. could sing in parts. It was the wise policy of the early Reformers, when chantries had for the most part been suppressed, to direct the musical taste of the laity to the performance of the church service ; and many were the books adapted to this end, such as “ Bassus,” consisting of portions of the service to be chanted, and “ The whole Psalms, in four parts, which may be sung to all musical instruments” (1563). The metrical version of the Psalms, by Sternhold and Hopkins, first printed in 1562, was essentially for the people ; and, accustomed as we have been to smile at the occasional want of refinement in this translation, its manly vigour, ay, and its bold harmony, may put to shame many of the feebler productions of our own feebler times. Sure we are that the child William Shakespeare had his memory stored with its vigorous and idiomatic English. But there was one book which it was the especial happiness of that contemplative boy to be familiar with. When, in the year 1537, the Bible in English was first printed by authority, Richard Grafton, the printer, sent six copies to Cranmer, beseeching the archbishop to accept them as his simple gift, adding, “ For your lordship, moving our most gracious prince to the allowance and licensing of such a work, hath wrought such an act worthy of praise as never was mentioned in any chronicle in this realm.” From that time, with the exception of the short interval of the reign of Mary, the presses of London were for the most part employed in printing Bibles. That book, to whose wonderful heart-stirring narratives the child listens with awe and love, was now and ever after to be the solace of the English home. With “ the Great Bible ” open before her, the mother would read aloud to her little ones that beautiful story of Joseph sold into slavery, and then advanced to honour — and how his brethren knew him not when, suppressing his tears, he said, “ Is your father well, the old man of whom ye spake — or how, when the child Samuel was laid down to sleep, the Lord called to him three times, and he grew, and God was with him ; — or, how the three holy men who would not worship the golden image walked about in the midst of the burning fiery furnace ; — or, how the prophet that was unjustly cast into the den of lions was found unhurt, because the true God had sent His angels and shut the lions’ mouths. These were the solemn and affecting nar- ratives, wonderfully preserved for our instruction from a long antiquity, that in the middle of the six- teenth century became unclosed to the people of England. But more especially was that other Testa- ment opened which most imported them to know ; and thus, when the child repeated in lisping accents the Christian’s prayer to his Father in heaven, the mother could expound to him that, when the Divine Author of that prayer first gave it to us. He taught us that the poor in spirit, the meek, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, were the happy and the beloved of God ; and laid down that com- prehensive law of justice, “All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.” We believe that the home education of William Shakespeare was grounded upon this Book ; and that, if this Book had been sealed to his child- hood, he might have been the poet of nature, of passion, — his humour might have been as rich as we find it, and his wit as pointed, — but that he would not have been the poet of the most profound as well as the most tolerant philosophy ; his insight into the nature of man, his meanness and his grandeur, his weakness and his strength, would not have been what it is. As the boy advanced towards the age of seven a little preparation for the Grammar School would be desirable. There would be choice of elementary books. The “ Alphabetum Latino Anglicum,” issued under the special authority of Henry VIIL, might attract by its most royal and considerate assurance that “ we forget not the tender babes and the youth of our realm.” Learning, however, was not slow then to put on its solemn aspects to the “ tender babes ; ” and so we have some grammars with a wooden cut of an awful man sitting on a high chair, pointing to a book with his right hand, but with a mighty rod in his left. On the other hand, the excellent Grammar of William Lilly would open a pleasant prospect of delight and recreation, in its well-known picture of a huge fruit-bearing tree, with little boys mounted amongst its branches and gathering in the bounteous crop, — a vision not however to be interpreted too lite- rally. Lilly’s Grammar, we are assured by certain grave reasoners, was the grammar used by Shake- speare, because he quotes a line from that grammar which is a modification of a line in Terence. Be it so, as far as the grammar goes. The memory of his school-lessons might have been stronger than that of his later acquirements. He might have quoted Lilly, and yet have read Terence. To the Grammar School, then, with some preparation, we hold that William Shakespeare goes, in the year 1571. His father Is at this time chief alderman of his town ; he is a gentle- man now of repute and authority ; he is Master John Shakespeare ; and assuredly the worthy curate of the neighbouring village of Luddington, Thomas Hunt, who was also the schoolmaster, would have received his new scholar with some kindness. As his “ shining morning face ” first passed out of the main street into that old court through which the upper room of learning was to be reached, a new life would be opening upon him. The humble minister of reli- gion who was his first instructor has left no memorials of his talents or his acquirements ; and in a few years INTKEIOR VIEWS OF GBAMMAE SCHOOt-EOOMS, IN WHICH SHAKKSPEAEE WAS EDUCATED, 47 The Chapel of the Guild and Grai7imar School. another master came after him, Thomas Jenkins, also unknown to fame. All praise and honour be to them ; for it is impossible to imagine that the teachers of William Shakespeare were evil instructors — giving the boy husks instead of wholesome aliment. They could not have been harsh and perverse instructors, for such spoil the gentlest natures, and his was always gentle : — “ My gentle Shakespeare,” is he called by a rough but noble spirit, — one in whom was all honesty and genial friendship under a rude exterior. His wondrous abilities could not be spoiled even by ignorant in- structors, and in his case the world should be grateful that wise and good masters ruled at Stratford’s venerable School of the Holy Guild. As Charles Knight charmingly expresses it : — Let us pass over for a time the young Shakespeare at his school-desk, inquiring not when he went from “ The Short Dictionary” forward to the use of “ Cooper’s Lexicon,” or whether he was most drilled in the “Eclogues” of Virgil, or those of the “good old Mantuan.” Of one thing we may be well assured, that the instruction of the Grammar School was the right instruction for the most vivacious mind, as for him of slower capacity. To spend a considerable portion of the years of boyhood in the acquirement of Latin and Greek was not to waste them, as modern illumination would instruct us. Something was to to be acquired, accurately and completely, that was of universal application, and within the boy’s power of acquirement. The particular knowledge that would fit him for a chosen course of life would be an after- acquirement; and, having attained the habit of patient study, and established in his own mind a standard to apply to all branches of knowledge by knowing one branch well, he would enter upon the race of life without being over-weighted with the elements of many arts and sciences, which it belongs only to the mature intellect to bear easily and gracefully, and to employ to lasting profit. Our grammar schools were wise institutions. They opened the road to usefulness and honour to the humblest in the land ; they bestowed upon the son of the peasant the same advantages of education as the son of the noble could receive from the most accomplished teacher in his father’s halls. Long may they be preserved amongst us in their integrity ; not converted by the meddlings of innovation into lecture-rooms for cramming chil- dren with the nomenclature of every science ; pre- senting little idea even of the physical world beyond that of its being a vast aggregation of objects that may be classified and catalogued ; and leaving the spiritual world utterly uncarcd for, as a region whose products cannot be readily estimated by a money value ! Every schoolboy’s dwelling-place is a microcosm ; but the little world lying around William Shake- speare was something larger than that in which boys of our own time for the most part live. The division of employments had not so completely separated a town life from a country life as with us ; and even the town occupations, the town amusements, and the town wonders, had more variety in them than our own days of systematic arrangement can present. Much of the education of William Shakespeare was unquestionably in the fields. A thousand incidental allusions manifest his familiarity with all the external aspects of nature. He is very rarely a descriptive poet, distinctively so called ; but images of mead and grove, of dale and upland, of forest depths, of quiet walks by gentle rivers, — reflections of his own native scenery, — spread themselves without an effort over all his writings. All the occupations of a rural life are glanced at or embodied in his characters. The sports, the festivals of the lone farm or the secluded hamlet, are presented by him with all the charms of an Arcadian age, but with a truthfulness that is not found in Arcadia. The nicest peculiarities in the habits of the lower creation are given at a touch ; we see the rook wing his evening flight to the wood ; we hear the drowsy hum of the sharded beetle. He wreathes all the flowers of the field in his delicate chaplets ; and even the nicest mysteries of the gar- dener’s art can be expounded by him. All this he appears to do as if from an instinctive power. His poetry in this, as in all other great essentials, is like the operations of nature itself ; we see not its work- ings. But we may be assured, from the very circum- stance of its appearing so accidental, so spontaneous in its relations to all external nature and to the country life, that it had its foundation in very early and very accurate observation. Stratford was especially fitted to have been the “green lap” in which the boy-poet was “ laid.” The whole face of creation here wore an aspect of quiet loveliness. Looking on its placid stream, its gently swelling hills, its rich pastures, its sleeping woodlands, the external world would to him be full of images of repose : it was in the heart of man that he was to seek for the sublime. Nature has thus ever with him something genial and exhilarating There are storms in his great dramas, but they are the accompaniments of the more terrible storms of human passions : they are raised by the poet’s art to make the agony of Lear more intense, and the murder of Duncan more awful. But his love of a smiling crea- tion seems ever present. We must image Stratford as it \vas, to see how the young Shakespeare walked “ in glory and in joy” amongst his native fields. Upon the bank of the Avon, having a very slight rise, is placed a scattered town, — a town whose dwellings have orchards and gardens, with lofty trees growing in its pathways. Its splendid collegiate church, in the time of Henry VI 1 1., was described to lie half a mile 48 Life of Shakespeare. from the town. Its eastern window is reflected in the river which flows beneath ; its grey tower is embowered amidst lofty elm-rows. At the opposite end of the town is a fine old bridge, with a causeway whose “ wearisome but needful length ” tells of inundations in the low pastures that lie all around it. We look upon Dugdale’s Map of Barichway Hundred, in which Stratford is situated, published in 1656, and we see four roads issuing from the town. The one to Henley- in-Arden, which lies through the street in which Shakespeare may be supposed to have passed his boyhood, continues over a valley of some breadth and extent, unenclosed fields, undoubtedly, in the sixteenth century, with the hamlets of Shottery and Bishopton amidst them. The road leads into the then woody district of Arden. At a short distance from it is the hamlet of Wilmecote, where Mary Arden dwelt ; and some two miles aside, more in the heart of the wood- land district, and hard by the river Alne, is the village of Aston Cantlow. Another road indicated on this old .map is that to Warwick. The wooded hills of Welcombe overhang it, and a little aside, some mile and a half from Stratford, is the meadow of Ingon which John Shakespeare rented in 1570. Very beau- tiful, even now, is this part of the neighbourhood, with its rapid undulations, little dells which shut in the scattered sheep, and sudden hills opening upon a wide landscape. Ancient crab-trees and hawthorns tell of uncultivated downs which have rung to the call of the falconer or the horn of the huntsman ; and then, having crossed the ridge, we are amongst rich corn- lands, with farm-houses of no modern date scattered about ; and deep in the hollow, so as to be hidden till we are upon it, the old village of Snitterfield, with its ancient church and its yew-tree as ancient. Here the poet’s maternal grandmother had her jointure ; and here it has been conjectured, his father also had pos- sessions. On the opposite side of Stratford, the third road runs in the direction of the Avon to the village of Bidford, with a nearer pathway along the river- bank. We cross the ancient bridge by the fourth road (which also diverges to Shipston), and we are on our way to the celebrated house and estate of Charle- cote, the ancient seat of the Lucys. A pleasant ramble indeed is this to Charlecote and Hampton Lucy, even with glimpses of the Avon from a turn- pike-road. But let the road run through meadows without hedgerows, with pathways following the river’s bank, now diverging when the mill is close upon the stream, now crossing a leafy elevation, and then sud- denly dropping under a precipitous wooded rock, and we have a walk such as poet might covet, and such as Shakespeare did enjoy in his boy-rambles. Through these pleasant places would the youth William Shakespeare walk hand in hand with his father, or wander at his own free will with his school companions. All the simple processes of farming life would be familiar to him. The profitable mysteries of modern agriculture would not embarrass his youth- ful experience. He would witness none of that anxious diligence which compels the earth to yield double crops, and places little reliance upon the unassisted operations of nature. The seed-time and the harvest in the corn-fields, the gathering-in of the thin grass on the uplands, and of the ranker produce of the flooded meadows, the folding of the flocks on the hills, the sheep-shearing, would seem to him like the humble and patient waiting of man upon a boun- teous Providence. There would be no systematic rotation of crops to make him marvel at the skill of the cultivator. Implements most skilfully adapted for the saving of animal labour would be unknown to him. The rude plough of his Saxon ancestors would be dragged along by a powerful team of sturdy oxen ; the sound of the flail alone would be heard in the barn. Around him would, however, be the glad indications of plenty. The farmer would have abundant stacks, and beeves, and kine, though the supply would fail in precarious seasons, when price did not regulate consumption ; he would brew his beer and bake his rye-bread ; his swine would be fattening on the beech-mast and the acorns of the free wood : his skeps of bees would be numerous in his garden \ the colewort would sprout from spring to winter for his homely meal, and in the fruitful season the strawberry would present its much coveted luxury. The old orchard would be rich with the choicest apples, grafts from the curious monastic varieties ; the rarer fruits from southern climates would be almost wholly unknown. There would be no niggard economy defeating itself ; the stock, such as it was, would be of the best, although no Bakewell had arisen to preside over its improvement. Old Tusser had just said : — Let carren and barren be shifted away. For best is the best, whatsoever ye pay. William Shakespeare would go out with his father on a Michaelmas morning, and the fields would be busy with the sowing of rye, and white wheat, and barley. The apples and the walnuts would be then gathered ; honey and wax taken from the hives ; timber would be felled, sawn, and stacked for seasoning. In the solitary fields, then, would stand the birdkeeper with his bow. As winter approached would come what Tusser calls “the slaughter-time,’’ the killing of sheep and bullocks for home consumption ; the thresher would be busy now and then for the farmer’s family, but the wheat for the baker would lie in sheaf No hurrying then to market for fear of a fall in price ; j there is abundance around, and the time of stint is far off. The simple routine, according to Tusser, was this : — ' .i . X r * f \ \ S. i .*;. r •i i I I i' » % i 1*1 *r. * •■ >t4v • » .r r ‘i* -“.• ■**- -/ ' r . -S'* -V V%'- •ir‘ ■ r‘-' '■ - cy^- * r . ■■ ■ ' • »i‘ ^''■;;;,'i : • \' I :!.C r THE COLLEGE, STRATFORO. ^ r HALL, STRATFORD COLLEGE. CLOn'ON HOUSE. WESTON CHURCH. shakesi’eare’s desk. rN HENLEY STREET MUSEUM. 49 The Chapel of the Gtiild and Grammar School. In spring-time we rear, we do sow, and we plant ; In summer get victuals, lest after we want. In harvest we carry in corn, and the fruit, In winter to spend, as we need of each suit. The joyous hospitality of Christmas had little fears that the stock would be prematurely spent ; and whilst the mighty wood-fire blazed in the hall to the mirth of song and carol, neighbours went from house to house to partake of the abundance, and the poor were fed at the same board with the opulent. As the frost breaks, the labourer is again in the fields ; hedg- ing and ditching are somewhat understood, but the whole system of drainage is very rude. With such agriculture man seems to have his winter sleep as well as the earth. But nature is again alive ; spring corn is to be sown ; the ewes and lambs are to be carefully tended ; the sheep, now again in the fields, are to be watched, for there are “ hungry mastiffs and mon- grels ” about ; the crow and pie are to be destroyed in their nests ere they are yet feathered ; trees are to be barked before timber is fallen. Then comes the active business of the dairy, and, what to us would be a strange sight, the lambs have been taken from their mothers, and the ewes are milked in the folds. May demands the labour of the weed-hook ; no horse- hoeing in those simple days. There are the flax and hemp too to be sown to supply the ceaseless labour of the spinner’s wheel ; bees are to be swarmed ; and herbs are to be stored for the housewife’s still. June brings its sheep-washing and shearing ; with its hay- making, where the farmer is captain in the field, pre- siding over the bottles and the wallets from the hour when the dew is dry, to set of sun. Bustle is tliere now to get “grist to the mill,” for the streams are drying, and if the meal be wanting how shall the household be fed } The harvest-time comes ; the reapers cry “ largess ” for their gloves ; the tithe is set out for “Sir Parson and then, after the poor have gleaned, and the cattle have been turned in “to mouth up ” what is left, Tusser would remind him again that : — In harvest-time, harvest-folk, servants and all. Should make, all together, good cheer in the hall ; And fill out the black bowl of blythe to their song. And let them be merry all harvest-time long. Such was the ancient farmer’s year, which Tusser has described with wonderful spirit even to the minutest detail ; and such were the operations of husbandry that the boy Shakespeare would have beheld with interest amidst his native corn-fields and pastures. When the boy became deep-thoughted he would perceive that many things were ill understood, and most operations indifferently carried through. He would hear of dearth and sickness, and he would seek to know the causes. But that time was not as yet. The poet who has delineated human life and character under every variety of passion and humour, must have had some early experience of mankind. The loftiest imagination must work upon the humblest materials. In his father’s home, amongst his father’s neighbours, he would observe those striking differences in the tempers and habits of mankind which are obvious even to a child. Cupidity would be contrasted with generosity ; parsimony with extravagance. He would hear of injustice and of ingratitude, of upright- ness and of fidelity. Curiosity would lead him to the bailiff s court, and there he would learn of bitter quarrels and obstinate enmities ; of friends parted “ on a dissension of a doit ; ” of foes who “ interjoin their issues ” to worry some wretched offender. Small ambition and empty pride would grow bloated upon the pettiest distinctions ; and “ the insolence of office” would thrust humility off the causeway. There would' be loud talk of loyalty and religion, while the peace- ful and the pious would be suspected ; and the syco- phant who wore the great man’s livery would strive to crush the independent in spirit. Much of this the observing boy would see; but much also would be concealed in the general hollowness that belongs to a period of inquietude and change. The time would come when he would penetrate into the depths of these things; but meanwhile what was upon the sur- face would be food for thought. At the weekly market there would be the familiar congregation of buyers and sellers. The housev/ife from her little farm, would ride in gallantly between her panniers laden with butter, eggs, chickens, and capons. The farmer would stand by his pitched corn, and, as Harrison complains, if the poor, man handled the sample with the intent to purchase his humble bushel, J the man of many sacks would declare that it was sold. The engrosser, according to the same authority, would be there with his understanding nod, success- fully evading every statute that could be made against forestalling, because no statutes could prevail against the power of the best price. There, before shops were many and their stocks extensive, would come the dealers from Birmingham and Coventry, with wares for use, and wares for show, horse-gear and women-gear, Sheffield whittles, and rings with posies. I At the joyous Fair-season it would seem that the wealth of a world was emptied into Stratford ; not only the substantial things, the wine, the wax, the wheat, the wool, the malt, the cheese, the clothes, the napery, such as even great lords sent their stewards to the fairs to buy, but every possible variety of such j trumpery as fill the pedlar’s pack, — ribbons, inkles, ^ caddises, coifs, stomachers, pomanders, brooches, I tapes, shoe-ties. Great dealings were there on these occasions in beeves and horses, tedious chafferings, stout affirmations, saints profanely invoked to ratify a bargain. II 50 Life of Shakespeare. This same Grammar School building would give the theatrical bend to the then youthful mind of the great author. The ground-floor room underneath the Schools, then the Hall of the Guild, afterwards the Town Hall, was the occasional theatre of Strat- ford. The elevation for the Court at one end would form the stage ; and on one side is an ancient sepa- rate chamber to which the performers would retire. With a due provision of benches, about three hun- dred persons could be accommodated. The ancient accounts of the Chamberlain of the Bailiff of Strat- ford exhibit a number of payments made out of the funds of the Corporation for theatrical performances. In 1569, when John Shakespeare was chief magis- trate, there is a payment of nine shillings to the Queen’s players, and of twelvepence to the Earl of Worcester’s players. In 1573 the Earl of Leicester’s players received six shillings and eightpence. In 1574 “my Lord of Warwick’s players” have a gratuity of seventeen shillings, and the Earl of Wor- cester’s players of five and sevenpence. In 1577 “ my Lord of Leicester’s players ” receive fifteen shillings, and “ my Lord of Worcester’s players ” three and fourpence. In 1579, to “ my Lord Strange men, the xith day of Lebruary, vj'.” and “ to the County of Essex plears, xivj. In 1580, “to the Earle of Darby’s players, viiL. iv^.” It is, therefore, an established certainty that some three or four sets of players acted in this building during the short period of the first sixteen years of Shakespeare’s life. It is a curious circumstance that the most precise and inte- resting account which we possess of one of the earliest of the theatrical performances, is from the recollection of a man who was born in the same year as William Shakespeare. In 1639 R. W. (R. Willis), stating his age to be seventy-five, published a little volume, called “ Mount Tabor,” which contains a passage which is essential to be given in any history or sketch of the early stage. “Upon a Stage-Play which I saw when I WAS A Child. “ In the City of Gloucester the manner is (as I think it is in other like Corporations) that, when players of interludes come to town, they first attend the Mayor, to inform him what nobleman’s servants they are, and so to get licence for their public play- ing ; and if the Mayor like the actors, or would show respect to their Lord and Master, he appoints them to play their first play before himself and the Aider- men and Common Council of the city ; and that is called the Mayor’s play, where every one that will, comes in without money, the Mayor giving the players a reward as he thinks fit, to show respect unto them. At such a play my father took me with him, and made me stand between his legs, as he sat upon one of the benches, where we saw and heard very well. The play was called ‘The Cradle of Security,’ wherein was personated a King or some great Prince with his courtiers of several kinds, amongst which three ladies were in special grace with him, and they, keeping him in delights and pleasures, drew him from his graver Counsellors, hearing of sermons, and listening to good counsel and admonitions, that in the end they got him to lie down in a cradle upon the stage, where these three ladies, joining in a sweet song, rocked him asleep, that he snorted again, and in the mean time closely conveyed under the clothes, wherewithal he was covered, a vizard like a swine’s snout upon his face, with three wire chains fastened thereunto, the other end whereof being holden severally by those three ladies, who fall to singing again, and then dis- covered his face, that the spectators might see how they had transformed him going on with their singing. Whilst all this was acting, there came forth of another door, at the farthest end of the stage, two old men, the one in blue, with a sergeant-at-arms his mace on his shoulder, the other in red, with a drawn sword in his hand, and leaning with the other hand upon the other’s shoulder, and so they too went along in a soft pace, round about by the skirt of the stage, till at last they came to the cradle, when all the Court was in greatest jollity, and then the foremost old man with his mace struck a fearful blow upon the cradle, whereat all the Courtiers, with the three ladies and the vizard, all vanished ; and the desolate Prince, starting up barefaced, and finding himself thus sent for to judg- ment, made a lamentable complaint of his miserable case, and so was carried away by wicked spirits. This Prince did personate in the moral the wicked of the world ; the three ladies, pride, covetousness, and luxury ; the two old men, the end of the world and the last judgment. This sight took such impression in me, that when I came towards man’s estate it was as fresh in my memory as if I had seen it newly acted.” We now understand why the Bailiff of Stratford paid the players out of the public money. The first performance of each company in this town was the Bailiff s, or chief magistrate’s play ; and thus, when the father of William Shakespeare was Bailiff, the boy might have stood “ between his legs as he sat upon one of the benches.” It would appear from Willis’s description that “ The Cradle of Security” was for the most part dumb show. It is probable that he was present at its performance at Gloucester when he was six or seven years of age ; it evidently belongs to that class of moral plays which were of the simplest construction. And yet it was popular long after the English drama had reached its highest emi- nence. When the pageants and mysteries had been put down by the force of public opinion, when spec- ’^ 77 " T I. V 'i t " "v. •I V** f. . r-;. y •, . v^‘ - S' ?-■.. •» ■ M* . , t ■,,■ '*V- New Place. 51 tacles of a dramatic character had ceased to be employed as instruments of religious instruction, the professional players who had sprung up founded their popularity for a long period upon the ancient habits and associations of the people. Our drama was essen- tially formed by a course of steady progress, and not by rapid transition. We are accustomed to say that the drama was created by Shakespeare, Marlowe, Greene, Kyd, and a few others of distinguished genius ; but they all of them worked upon a founda- tion which was ready for them. The superstructure of real tragedy and comedy had to be erected upon the moral plays, the romances, the histories, which were beginning to be popular in the very first days of Queen Elizabeth, and continued to be so, even in their very rude forms, beyond the close of her long reign. We never enter the quaint old room on the street floor of the Guild Grammar School, and which was the Guildhall of his day, without being impressed with a conviction that it was in this very place he received his first bias to the stage, from witnessing here the performances of strolling actors. In 1569, when John Shakespeare was high-bailifif, we first hear of the Queen’s Players performing here, under the patronage of the Corporation. The Earl of Worcester’s company was also there — the royal party receiving a honorarium of nine shillings, while the Earl’s Players received only a gratuity of twelve pence. “ Mr. Bailiff,” the chief magistrate, was no doubt present; and his son William, then five years old, would very likely accompany him, a wondering and delighted spectator of the per- formances. In 1573, the Earl of Leicester’s Players visited the town ; and in 1576, two companies are mentioned — those of the Earls of Warwick and Wor- cester. From that time, Stratford had for several years annual visits from the players; and in 1587, we find no less than five companies there during the year. All their performances were given in the Guildhall, under the Guild Grammar School. It is a grand theme, the early development of such a mind as Shakespeare’s, narrow as the field of such a quiet town as Stratford would seem to present, yet there was ample for such a mighty intellect as knew no equal. Of natural scenery and objects, as in more advanced years, of men and manners, the bright- eyed boy must have been a sedulous and enthusiastic observer. And we must remember that the ancient towns of Warwick and Coventry with their historical associations, Evesham with its grand monastic re- mains, and the noble Castle of Kenilworth, were all within accessible distance. The celebrated visit of Queen Elizabeth to the Earl of Leicester there, took place in the summer of 1575, when Shakespeare was eleven years old. That he witnessed those magni- ficent festivities and chivalrous displays it would be folly to doubt. New Place. The first indication of Shakespeare’s material prosperity appears in his purchase, in 1597, for 60/., of New Place, one of the best houses in Stratford, and situated at the corner of Chapel Street, opposite to the Guild Chapel. This mansion had been origi- nally built in the reign of Henry VII. , by Sir Hugh Clopton, in whose family it continued till 1563, when it was sold by them to a person named Botte, who again disposed of it to William Underhill. On its being purchased from the latter by Shakespeare in 1597, the poet had it thoroughly repaired and re- modelled; but the statement made, that he changed the name to New Place is incorrect, it having been lately ascertained that the mansion bore that name at a period anterior to its becoming Shakespeare’s pro- perty. In the will of the old knight. Sir Hugh Clop- ton, it is styled “the Great House.” The sketch given as “New Place” is the fac-simile of an engraving first published by Malone, and sub- sequently appended to the variorum editions, and described as “ a drawing in the margin of an Ancient Survey, made by order of Sir George Carew (after- wards Baron Carew) of Clopton.” Dugdale, speaking of Sir Hugh Clopton, who built the bridge at Strat- ford and repaired the chapel, says, “ On the north side of this chapel was a fair house built of brick and timber by the said Hugh, wherein he lived in his later days, and died.” Shakespeare by his will left it to his daughter, Mrs. Hall, with remainder to her heirs male, or, in default, to her daughter Elizabeth and her heirs male, or the heirs male of his daughter Judith. Mrs. Hall died in 1649, surviving her hus- band fourteen years. There is little doubt that she occupied the house when Queen Henrietta Maria, in 1643, coming to Stratford in royal state with a large army, resided for three weeks under this roof. The property descended to her daughter Elizabeth, first married to Mr. Thomas Nash, and afterwards to Sir Thomas Barnard. She dying without issue. New Place was sold in 1675, and was ultimately re- purchased by the Clopton family. Sir Hugh Clopton, in the middle of the eighteenth century, resided there. The learned Knight thoroughly repaired and beauti- fied the place, as the local historians say, and built a modern front to it. This was the first stage of its desecration. After the death of Sir Hugh, in 1751, it was sold to the Rev. Francis Gastrell, in 1753. The total destruction of New Place in 1757, by its new possessor, is difficult to account for upon any ordinary principles of action. Malone thus relates the story : — “ The Rev. Mr. Gastrell, a man of large fortune, resided in it but a few years, in consequence of a disagreement with the inhabitants of Stratford. Every house in that town that is let or valued at more II 2 LIBRARY UNIVERSirV OF ILUNniS 52 Life of Shakespeaj'e, than 40J. a year is assessed by the overseers, accord- ing to its worth and the ability of the occupier, to pay a monthly rate toward the maintenance of the poor. As Mr. Gastrell resided part of the year at Lichfield, he thought he was assessed too highly ; but being very properly compelled by the magistrates of Strat- ford to pay the whole of what was levied on him, on the principle that his house was occupied by his servants in his absence, he peevishly declared that that house should never be assessed again ; and soon after- wards pulled it down, sold the materials, and left the town. Wishing, as it should seem, to be ‘ damn’d to everlasting fame,’ he had some time before cut down Shakespeare’s celebrated mulberry-tree, to save him- self the trouble of showing it to those whose admi- ration of our great poet led them to visit the poetic ground on which it stood.” The cutting down of the mulberry-tree seems to have been regarded as the chief offence in Mr. Gastrell’s own generation. His wife was a sister of Johnson’s correspondent, Mrs. Aston. After the death of Mr. Gastrell, his widow resided at Lichfield ; and in 1776, Boswell, in com- pany with Johnson, dined with the sisters. Boswell on this occasion says, “ I was not informed till after- wards that Mrs. Gastrell’s husband was the clergy- man who, while he lived at Stratford-upon-Avon, with Gothic barbarity cut down Shakespeare’s mulberry- tree, and, as Dr. Johnson told me, did it to vex his neighbours. His lady, I have reason to believe on the same authority, participated in the guilt of what the enthusiasts of our immortal bard deem almost a species of sacrilege.” The mulberry-tree was cut down in 1756, was sold for firewood, and the bulk of it was purchased by a Mr. Thomas Sharp, of Stratford-upon- Avon, clock and watch-maker, who made a solemn affidavit some years afterwards, that out of a sincere veneration for the memory of its celebrated planter, he had the greater part of it conveyed to his own premises, and worked it into curious toys and useful articles. The destruction of the mulberry-tree, which the previous possessor of New Place used to show | with pride and veneration, enraged the people of I Stratford ; and Mr. Wheler tells us that he remem- j bers to have heard his father say that, when a boy, he assisted in the revenge of breaking the reverend destroyer’s windows. The hostilities were put an end to by the Rev. Mr. Gastrell quitting Stratford in 1757 ; and upon the principle of doing what he liked with | his own, pulling the house to the ground in which Shakespeare and his children had lived and died. There is no good end to be served in execrating the memory of the man who deprived the world of the pleasure of looking upon the rooms in which the author of some of the greatest productions of human 1 intellect had lived, in the common round of humanity | — of treading reverentially upon the spot hallowed by his presence and by his labours. He intended no insult to the memory of Shakespeare ; and, indeed, thought nothing of Shakespeare in the whole course of his proceedings. He bought a house and paid for it. He wished to enjoy it in quiet. People with whom he could not sympathize intruded upon him to see the gardens and the house. In the gardens was a noble mulberry-tree. Tradition said it was planted by Shakespeare ; and the professional enthusiasts of Shakespeare, — the Garricks and the Macklins, — had sat under its shade during the occupation of one who felt that there was a real honour in the ownership of such a place. The Rev. Mr. Gastrell wanted the house and the gardens to himself. He had that strong notion of the exclusive rights of property which belongs to most Englishmen, and especially to igno- rant Englishmen. Mr. Gastrell was an ignorant man, though a clergyman. In 1597 Shakespeare purchased The G^'eat House at Stratford-upon-Avon, described as “ one messuage, two barns, two gardens, and two orchards, with appurte- nances.” The same year his father, formerly in declining circumstances, applied for a grant of arms, and passed from the condition of a yeoman to that of a gentle- man ; and the same year he filed a bill in Chancery against the son of the mortgagee who unjustly de- tained Ashbies, the hereditary property of the poet’s mother. In the grant he is called “John Shakspeare, now of Stratford-upon-Avon, in the co. of Warwick, gent., whose parent, great-grandfather and late ante- cessor, for his faithful and approved service to the late most prudent prince Henry VIL, of famous memory, was advanced and rewarded with lands and tenements given to him in those parts of Warwickshire, where they have continued by some descents in good re- putation.” Next year the poet is assessed for a tene- ment in the parish of St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate, London, valued at 5/., and is asked by his friend Richard Quiney for the loan of 30/. From this year, until 1602, when the fertility of his invention poured forth some of the grandest of his productions, and popular judgment placed him far above all his contemporaries, his progress to wealth and fame was equally rapid. In 1602 he purchased 107 acres of arable land in Stratford for the sum of 320/., somewhat more than 1000/. in modern computa- tion ; five months after, in the same year, one Walter Getley surrendered a house to the poet in Dead Lane, Stratford ; at Michaelmas term, William Shakespeare, gentleman, as he is now generally stjded, bought from Hercules Underhill, for 60/., a property consisting of a messuage with two orchards, two gardens, two barns, and their appurtenances. In IMay, 1603, when James I. came to the crown, a privy seal was granted by the King to his servants “ Laurence Fletcher, Wil- liam Shakespeare, Richard Burbage, Augustine Phi- ,S(i«kt»lii0TM KfuJmCj 'NtnFIfiCd cr,A Cha'lut tfHvlu GuiU $lral for,! m Aran New Place. 53 lippes, John Hemmings, Henry Condell,” and the rest of their associates, “ to use and exercise the art and faculty of playing comedies, tragedies, histories, inter- ludes, morals, pastorals, stage-plays, and such other, like as they have already studied, or hereafter shall use or study,” in their usual house, the Globe, or else- where within the king’s dominions. And James, who was by no means the fool that posterity represents him to have been, showed his discrimination by fre- quently commanding Shakspeare’s plays to be acted at court. In the account of “ The Revels at Court,” notices are found of the following : — “ Othello,” “ Merry Wives of Windsor,” “ Measure for Measure,” “Comedy of Errors,” in 1604; “Love’s Labour’s Lost,” “ Henry V.,” “ Merchant of Venice,” twice in 1605 ; at Whitehall, “ King Lear,” which had already in 1608 passed through three editions; in 1611, “The Tempest,” and “The Winter’s Night’s Tale.” In 1613, on the marriage of James’s daughter Elizabeth with the Prince-palatine, the representation of Shake- speare’s plays furnished a great part of the entertain- ment ; among them are “ The Tempest,” “ The Twins’ Tragedy ” (supposed to be the “ Comedy of Errors ”), “ Much Ado About Nothing,” “ The Winter’s Tale,” “Sir John Falstaff,” “ Othello,” and “Julius Caesar.” In 1605 the poet added to his property at Stratford by purchasing the unexpired lease of the tithes of Stratford and the adjoining hamlets for the sum of 440/. sterling ; in modern computation 1400/. It is not known at what period he retired from the stage and settled finally in Stratford. By the spring of 1613 he had lost his father, his mother, and his only son. Two daughters remained : Susannah, mar- ried, in 1607, to Dr. Hall, a physician at Stratford ; and Judith, married to a vintner named Quiney, of the same place, in 1616. During the last three years of his life notices of his purchases and employments become more rare. In 1613 the Globe Theatre was burnt, and it is gratuitously assumed that many of the poet’s manuscripts perished in the flames. Had it been so, we should hardly have failed of finding some notice of such a disastrous loss in the preface and dedication to the first collected edition of his works. Nor, considering the poet’s immature death, his various employments, and the number of his plays which have come down to us, is it probable that any considerable portion of his writings has perished. Next year (1 598), we find Abraham Sturley,a burgess [ of Stratford, writing thus to a friend in London : “ It seemeththat our countryman, Mr. Shakespeare, is will- ing to disburse some money upon some odd yard land or other at Shottery and nine months afterwards we see Richard Quiney, another Stratford man — whose son subsequently married Shakespeare’s younger daughter — applying to him for a loan of 30/., under no apprehension, apparently, that he would be refused the money, although 30/. were then fully equivalent to 120/. at the present time. It is not a little curious that this letter of Quiney is the only one addressed to the poet now known to be in existence. It is carefully preserved in the Shakespearian Museum in the birthplace, and runs thus: — “ Loveinge countreyman, I am bolde of you, as of a ffrende, cravinge your helpe with xxx. li. uppon Mr. Bushells and my securitee, or Mr. Myttens with me. Mr. Rosswell is nott come to London as yeate, and I have especiall cawse. You shall ffrende me muche in helpeinge me out of all the debettes I owe in London, I thanck God, and muche quiet my mynde, which wolde nott be indebted. I am nowe towardes the Cowrte, in hope of answer for the dispatche of my buyseness. You shall nether loose creddyt nor monney by me, the Lorde wyllinge ; and nowe butt perswade yourselfe soe, as I hope, and you shall nott need to feare, butt, with all hartie thanckefullness, I wyll holde my tyme, and content your ffrende, and yf we bargaine further, you shal be the paie-master your- selfe. My tyme biddes me hastin to an ende, and soe I committ thys (to) yowr care and hope of yowr helpe. I feare I shall not be backe thys night ffrom the Cowrte. Haste. The Lorde be with yow and with us all. Amen ! ffrom the Bell in Carter Lane, the 25 October, 1598. “ Yowrs in all kyndenes, “ Rych. Quyney.” “To my lovinge good ffrend and contreyman Mr. Wm. Shackespere deliver thees.” This is the only scrap of paper which we know for certain that we possess, that Shakespeare ever read. It is a precious document, — one short glimpse which we catch of the poet. There is not the slightest ground for the conjecture, which has been founded upon it, that Shakespeare at one period of his life was a money-lender. “ Loving good friend,” and “ loving countryman,” is not quite the way in which a usurer would be addressed upon money-matters at any period of the world’s history. Nor does the tone of the rest of the note countenance the supposition. Better, surely, is it for us to regard this letter as showing Shakespeare in the light of a friend helping a friend, possessed with that love, which is so marked in all his writings, and that sympathy which is the finest trait in our human nature. Before the close of the sixteenth century we meet with many indications of the growing worldly pro- sperity of Shake.speare ; and there is one incident which serves curiously to show that his acquisition of property was accompanied by a desire for a position of corresponding social respectability. In the year 1596 an application must have been made by John 54 Life of Shakespeare. Shakespeare, the poet’s father, who no doubt repre- sented the poet himself, for a grant of arms, and two drafts of such a grant are preserved in the College of Arms. In those documents it is stated by William Dethick, Garter King of Arms, that he had been, by “ credible report, informed ” that the “ parents and antecessors” of John Shakespeare, of Stratford-upon- Avon, “ were, for their valiant and faithful service, advanced and rewarded by the most prudent prince. King Henry the Seventh, of famous memory, since which time they have continued at those parts in good reputation and credit ; and that the said John having married Mary, daughter and one of the heirs of Arden, of Wilmecote, in the said county,” &c. At the bottom of the second draft the following curious note is inserted : — This John hath a pattern thereof under Clarencieux Cooke’s hand in paper twenty years past. A justice of peace, and was bailiff, officer, and chief of the town of Stratford-upon-Avon fifteen or sixteen years past. That he hath lands and tenements of good wealth and sub- stance, 500/. That he married a daughter and heir of Arden, a gent, of worship. A complaint must have been made from some quarter that this application had no sufficient founda- tion, for we have, in the Heralds’ College, a manu- script, which purports to be “the answer of Garter and Clarencieux Kings of Arms, to a libellous scrowl against certain arms supposed to be wrongfully given in which the writers state, under the head, “ Shakespeare,” that “ the person to whom it was granted hath borne magistracy, and was justice of jDeace, at Stratford-upon-Avon : he married the daughter and heir of Arden, and was able to maintain that estate.” We thus obtain an explanation of the somewhat singular application made by John Shakespeare to the Heralds’ College. The petition of the poet him- self would have been rejected, on account of his pro- fession as a player, but his father had been high- bailiff of Stratford, and was the husband of Mary Arden, who came of gentle blood. John Shake- speare did not long survive the heraldic honours conferred on him, and died at Stratford in Sep- tember, 1601. His wife Mary survived him for seven years, dying in the same month of the year 1608. Both had lived to witness the almost unexampled success of their eldest son, and no doubt to be relieved by his filial attention from the load of care and poverty by which at one time they must have been sorely oppressed. The site of New Place, together with some ground adjoining, which formed part of Shakespeare’s gar- i den, has now, like the birthplace in Henley Street, | been purchased by public subscription, and become j national property. The original foundations of the two mansions — the house occupied by Shakespeare, and that built at a later period by Sir John Clopton, — have been excavated, and disclosed to view. Various relics found here, and in the adjoining garden, are deposited in the Museum in Henley Street. But it is at the top of the garden only that any remains can now be traced of the permanent abode of Shake- speare from 1609 to 1616. It was demolished more than a hundred and fifty years ago, and another house built on the site ; which, again, was taken down about the middle of last century. Since then the land has continued to be nearly a waste, and unre- garded, till the subscription enabled the excavations to be made in 1862. The uncovered remnants of the second house are of no interest ; but any morsel dis- closed, even of a lump of brick and mortar, which was once part and portion of Shakespeare’s home, seems to enthusiasts worthy of notice and preserva- tion. But there is much more. The ground plan of his mansion is revealed by the buried walls ; and there remains the well, yet flowing with pure and sparkling water. The stone coining, six feet from the bottom, still testifies to the originality of this precious fountain, whence Shakespeare quenched his thirst and cooled his brow. Shakespeare, it is absolutely certain, spent the last few years of his life here in his home. New Place, at Stratford-upon-Avon. A variety, and a perfect con- currence of testimony leave no room for doubt upon that point. But we have no means whatever of ascer- taining the precise period of his complete removal from London. The final departure of the great drama- tist from the principal scene of his wonderful achieve- ments was, apparently, as unostentatious and as un- noticed as the arrival there of the obscure and needy young man who was to win by the labour of a few years the greatest name in literature. It is very likely that for some time before his death he ceased to have any personal interest in the fortunes of his former fellow-actors. We have no reason to suppose that he suffered any loss by the burning of the Globe Theatre in the year 1613 ; and no mention is made of any theatrical property in his will. His income at Strat- ford from land, houses, and tithes, is computed to have amounted to between 200/. and 300/. a year, which would then have been nearly equivalent to between 1000/. and 1500/. of our money. If he still felt — which seems very doubtful — any strong interest in theatrical pursuits, he must have found himself, in his retreat, surrounded by a somewhat uncongenial society. On the 17th of December, 1602, as already stated, the Corporation of Stratford passed a reso- lution to the effect that “ no play or interlude should be performed in the Chamber, the Guildhall, nor in any other part of the House or Court, from henceforth, under pain that whatever Bailiff, Alder- Charlccote Park. 55 man, or Burgess, should give leave or licence there- unto, should forfeit, for every offence, ten shillings;” and the threat of this penalty not having been attended, as it appears, with the desired effect, the fine, which a disobedience of the order was to entail, was raised in the year 1612 from ioj-. to 10/. We find, in the records of 1622, a still more curious proof of the growth of the Puritanical spirit among the Corporate authorities at Stratford. In that year the King’s Players were paid for not playing in the Hall. The sum allowed them on this account was 6 s. The following curious entry occurs in the accounts of the Chamberlain of Stratford for 1614 : — “ Item, for on quart of sack and on quart of clarett winne given to a Preacher at the Newe Place, xx^.” Stratford was at this time much visited by Puritan divines, to whose tenets Shakespeare’s wife and family appear to have been attached. Shakespeare himself has never been accused of Puri- tanical leanings, and it is probable that, at the time referred to, he was absent in London or elsewhere He may, however, have “lent his house on the occa- sion, in compliance with the wishes of some of his family or neighbours, whom he was too liberal- minded to oppose.” Charlecote Park. It is well to take a boat and row up the Avon Warwickwards. Far over its clear waters the graceful willows bend, kissing the sparkling stream as it flows along. Large beds of fine and richly-fragrant water- lilies spread their yellow blossoms, and the blue forget-me-nots, “the flowers for happy lovers,” edge the banks with their fine adornment. Islands covered with withies and thick beds of rushes frequently break the stream into two currents, where gurgling waters make soft responses to the waving of the trees, which the mildest of breezes awakens into the sweetest melo- dies. Long after leaving the town, while the windings of the river bring the fine spire of the church full in view ; and, resting on the oars, another and another look is taken at the glorious symbol of aspiration, ever pointing skywards, with thoughts constantly recurring to him whose honoured bones repose under its sancti- fying and hallowed roof ; and wonderings if he who had written such solemn and fearful descriptions of death, now beheld the pilgrimages of men to his honoured birth-place and tomb. The surrounding country, from which Shakespeare derived so much of his inspiration, belongs' to the Vale of the Red Horse, so called from the gigantic figure of a horse cut in the red marl of the Edgehills, about twelve miles from Stratford. The undulating, richly-wooded surface of this portion of Warwickshire — its orchards and corn- fields — its stately mansions and parks— its shady walks and rich meadows, with the silver Avon mean- dering through them, all present together an admirable type of English scenery. In many respects, it exhibits still the same features that it did in the days of Shake- speare, though there can be no doubt that, owing to the amelioration effected by draining, enclosing, and improved cultivation generally, we view the bard’s Fatherland at the present day under much more favourable auspices than he did. The Avon, which assuredly constitutes the leading “line of beauty and grace ” of this charming district, takes its origin from a spring called Avon Well, in the village of Naseby, in Northamptonshire, enters the county of Warwick, through which it flows in a south- west direction, and widening out into a broad stream as it approaches Stratford, continues its course through Worcestershire, and finally joins the Severn at Tewkes- bury. It divides Warwickshire into two irregularly- sized portions. The south or smaller division, called “ Heldon,” is a champaign country, of great fertility ; whilst the northern or larger portion, entitled “ The Woodland,” though generally highly cultivated, is interspersed likewise with wild moorland and heaths. It includes an extensive district bearing the name of the “ Forest of Arden,” which still contains much fine timber, principally oak. Much of this forest-land, extending north-by-west from Stratford, must have been familiar to Shakespeare, and furnished him with the prototype of the charming descriptions of forest scenery which he has introduced in “As You Like It.” The hamlet of Wilmecote, or Wimpcote, where the girlhood of his mother, Mary Arden, was passed, lies on the southern frontier of this district, about three miles from Stratford, and a little to the left of the road leading to Henley-in-Arden. The Cottage in which Mary Arden resided, prior to her union with John Shakespeare, is among the Illustrations of this volume. The name of Lucy, Charlecote Park, and the alleged deer-stealing therefrom, must ever be con- nected with the early life of Shakespeare. The most remarkable tradition respecting the great poet is that relating to his having been brought before Sir Thomas Lucy for deer-stealing from Charlecote Park. Only recently has there been a disposition to take a sen- sible view of the matter. The tradition was generally accepted for truth. Now, however, the judgment of recent times rejects it, if not wholly, at least in part. But may there not be some truth in the story without dimming the glory of the poet, and without fixing the shadow of reproach on Sir Thomas Lucy, still less to attach any or the slightest stigma to any descen- dant of the family, who to their honour have, from Shakespeare’s day, becomingly maintained their dignity as possessors of this ancient estate, adminis- tering hospitality, and deservedly enjoying the respect of all the country round about them. We can well believe that in some hour of youthful excitement he may have trespassed, either alone or with wild com- 56 Life of Shakespeare. panions, beyond bounds, in pursuit of game ; have been apprehended by the keepers, and brought before Sir Thomas Lucy. He may even have been arrested by mistake, and have stood before the judg- ment-seat of Sir Thomas. Prominent throughout his works is evidence of his knowledge of all kinds of field-sports, such as hunting, falconry, fishing, and even ferreting of rabbits. It is very probable that he himself was attached to these amusements before he entered seriously upon the grand object of his life ; that on some occasion he stood charged before Sir Thomas Lucy ; and the scurrilous verses imputed to him are just such as a highly sensitive youth, as Shakespeare must have been, might have written when deeply incensed. Had he gone to his grave like his fellow-townsmen, such an incident would have been forgotten ; but when he rose to eminence, and when, after his death, he became a frequent theme of conversation, incidents of early life would naturally be seized upon ; and as generation after generation told the tales, proneness to exaggeration added some- thing from time to time, and disguised the simple original facts. The deer-stealing story runs thus : — Shakespeare having become connected with a company of wild young men, joined them in a poaching expedition, for the purpose of capturing the deer belonging to Sir Thomas Lucy. The poet was caught in the very act, and it being then night, was conveyed to the keeper’s lodge in the neighbourhood, whence, after being de- tained in durance vile till morning, he was conducted to the worshipful presence of Sir Thomas at Charle- cote Hall. What punishment was inflicted, we are not informed ; but Shakespeare’s choler being roused, he affixed to the park-gate a stinging pasquinade on Sir Thomas in the form of a ballad. As against the truth of the story, we should remember that Sir Thomas was the most important resident of Stratford vicinity, mixing freely among its citizens, and just then was chosen arbitrator in a matter of dispute by Hamnet Sadler, the friend of Shakespeare ; also close on the period named, he had been elected member for the county of Warwick. Oldys, an antiquary, who died in 1761, furnishes the subjoined lines as the first stanza of the ballad in question, thus endorsing it : “ There was a very aged gentleman living in the neighbourhood of Stratford, where he died fifty years since, who had not only heard from several old people in that town of Shakespeare’s transgression, but could remember the first stanza of that bitter ballad, faithfully transcribed from the copy which his relation very courteously communicated to me : — A parliemente member, a justice of peace. At home a poor scare-crowe, at London an asse : If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscall it. Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it : He thinks himself great, Yet an asse in his state We allowe by his ears but with asses to mate. If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscall it, Sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it. These lines are more remarkable for acrimony than wit ; but it is very probable, nevertheless, that they may have been originally written by Shakespeare, and afterwards maimed and corrupted in the course of transmission. In confirmation of the account given above of their preservation, it may be men- tioned that Capell, writing previous to 1781, states that many years before he received a copy of the verses in question from a grandson of the gentleman who had originally committed them to writing, as referred to by Oldys. The two copies are identical, or nearly so. Spurious verses were afterwards added, purporting to form a complete copy of the ballad, the author being a person of the name of Jordan, who imposed numerous forgeries on the world as genuine memorials of Shakespeare. Another version of the ballad on Sir Thomas Lucy, but differing in metre from the preceding, and probably the production of some poetaster of the seventeenth century, runs thus : — Sir Thomas was too covetous To covet so much deer. When horns upon his head Most plainly did appear. Had not his worship one deer left ? What then ? He had a wife Took pains enough to find him horns Should last him during life. A more refined revenge, if, indeed revenge it can be called, was taken by Shakespeare several years afterwards on Sir Thomas Lucy, whom he has intro- duced as Justice Shallow in the “Merry Wives of Windsor,” with an evident allusion to his name and coat of arms : — Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not ; I will make a Star- chamber matter of it : if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, Esquire. Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace and coram. Shallow. Ay, Cousin Slender, and cust-alorum. Slender. Ay, and ratolorimi too ; and a gentleman born, master parson ; who writes himself armigero; in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, armigero. Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three hundred years. Slender. All his successors gone before him have done’t : and all his ancestors that come after him may : they may given the dozen white luces in their coat. Shallow. It is an old coat. Evans. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well ; it agrees well, passant ; it is a familiar beast to man, and sig- nifies — love. Shallow. The luce is the fresh fish ; the salt fish is an old coat. Luce is an old word for a full-grown pike, and from this the Lucys of Charlecote derive their name, bear- incr as arms on their shield three of these fishes. A o . ' i T '>• r-. ’■ V : I* i A f. ■ -V . u. /- . U .i-^. ■/ (> >' fi j. :k .nt ) ‘ i " 5i 'CHARLECOTE. GtREAT Charlecote Park. 57 further allusion to Charlecote and the poaching foray occurs in the same scene. Sir John Falstaff, against whom Shallow has been inveighing so loudly, enters : — Falstaff. Now, Master Shallow; you’ll complain of me to the king ? Shallow. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge. Falstaff. But not kissed your keeper’s daughter. Shallow. Tut, a pin ! this shall be answered. Falstaff. I will answer it straight ; — I have done all this ; — that is now answered. Shallow. The Council shall know this. Falstaff. ’Twere better for you if it were known in counsel ; you’ll be laughed at. Whatever there may be of truth in the traditions which have so long been cherished in the neighbour- hood of Stratford with regard to Shakespeare’s early life, the evidence bearing upon his alleged deer-steal- ing exploits, and more especially the lampooning to which Sir Thomas Lucy is said to have been sub- jected, they have always been regarded as authentic by people of the district. Certainly, the Justice Shallow of the “ Merry Wives ” is clearly Lucy of Charlecote. To the end of time he, and none other, will stand out as the man. Rowe thus first men- tions them : “An extravagance that he was guilty of forced him both out of his country and that way of living which he had taken up ; and, though it seemed at first to be a blemish upon his good manners and a misfortune to him, yet it afterwards happily proved the occasion of exerting one of the greatest geniuses that ever was known in dramatic poetry. He had, by a misfortune common enough to young fellows, fallen into ill company, and, amongst them, some that made a frequent practice of deer- stealing, engaged him more than once in robbing a park that belonged to Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charle- cote, near Stratford. For this he was prosecuted by that gentleman, as he thought, somewhat too severely ; and, in order to revenge that ill-usage, he made a ballad upon him. And though this, probably the first essay of his poetry be lost, yet it is said to have been so very bitter, that it redoubled the prosecution against him to that degree, that he was obliged to leave his business and family in Warwickshire for some time, and shelter himself in London.’’ In the papers of the Rev. William Fulman, which were bequeathed in 1688 to the Rev. Richard Davies, of Sandford, Oxfordshire, and at his death, in 1707, deposited in the library of Corf^us Christi College, there are among the notes added by Davies the fol- lowing pieces of information on this subject : — “ He was much given to all unluckiness, in stealing venison and rabbits ; particularly from Sir Lucy, who had often whipped him, and sometimes imprisoned him, and at last made him fly his native country, to his great advancement.” In Mr. Davies’s account we have no mention of the ballad, through which, according to I Rowe, the young poet revenged his “ ill-usage.” j Cabell, another editor of Shakespeare’s works, thus alludes to this question : — “ The writer of his ‘ Life,’ the first modern (Rowe), speaks of a ‘ lost ballad,’ which added fuel, he says, to the knight’s before con- ceived anger, and ‘ redoubled the persecution ;’ and calls the ballad, ‘ the first essay of Shakespeare’s poetry ;’ one stanza of it, which has the appearance of being genuine, was put into the editor’s hands many years ago by an ingenious gentleman (grandson of its preserver), with this account of the way in which it descended to him : ‘ Mr. Thomas Jones, who dwelt at Tarbick, a village in Worcestershire, a few miles from Stratford-on-Avon, and died in the year 1703, aged upwards of ninety, remembered to have heard from several old people at Stratford the story of Shake- speare’s robbing Sir Thomas Lucy’s park ; and their account of it agreed with Mr. Rowe’s, with this addi- tion, that the ballad written against Sir Thomas by Shakespeare was stuck upon his park-gate, which exasperated the knight to apply to a lawyer at War- wick to proceed against him. Mr. Jones had put down in writing the first stanza of the ballad, which was all he remembered of it, and Mr. Thomas Wilkes (my grandfather) transmitted it to my father by memory, who also took it in writing.’ ” This, then, is the entire evidence of the deer-stealing tradition. Omitting the modern decorations of the deer-steal- ing story, we may possibly admit some deer-shooting in the poet’s case, as in that of many others of his contemporaries. It may be hard to point to any direct evidence in the poet’s works in confirmation of this act of youthful delinquency ; but we think that the impression left on the minds of most will warrant the belief that the poet had been a lad of spirit, of no “ vinegar aspect popular — boy, youth, and man — among his contemporaries, and taking life easy in all its stages ; laughing heartily at a jest, and perfectly willing to bear his part in one. So complete and perfect are the harmony and unity of his dramatic characters, that we cannot safely derive from them any hypothesis as to the poet’s dislikes and predilec- tions ; yet the humours of Eastcheap, the mad pranks i of Prince Hal and his associates, the reckless adven- tures of hair-brained, hot-blooded youth, are painted by the poet with such a zest as can scarcely be held otherwise than an indication of his own temperament. In Sonnet CX. he speaks plainly enough of youth- ful errors, of which he had lived to repent in strong and sober manhood : — Alas ! ’tis true, I have gone here and there, And made myself a motley to the view. Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear. Made old affections of offences new. Most true it is, that I have look’d on truth Askance and strangely ; but, by all above. These blenches gave my heart another youth. I 58 Life of Shakespeare. But deer-stealing, though a perilous offence, was too popular and too common in all ranks to entail disgrace or compel an offender to flee from his native town. That Shakespeare entertained a personal dislike for the Lucys, we can well believe ; and the more so, as of all his signal and numerous opportunities to take poetical vengeance on his unfriends, that of the Lucys is the only prominent instance. That the Lucys were fond of litigation is implied by the opening lines of the “Merry Wives of Windsor,” and justified by history. In the conversation between Shallow, Slender, and Evans, Slender says, “ They may give the dozen white luces in their coat.” To which Shallow replies, “ It is an old coat evidently re- ferring to the family pride of the Lucys, as well as their antiquity. Evans: “The dozen white louses do become an old coat well ; it agrees well, passant ” (that being their heraldic characteristic, twelve luces, passant). “ It is a familiar beast to man, and sig- nifies — love'.' Excessively comical in the mouth of a Welshman! But the feud between the Lucys and the natives of Stratford was of earlier date than this story of the deer-stealing, and crops out on various occasions. The Lucys were arrogant and imperious Puritans ; the good town of Stratford, with the Cloptons and the Catesbys, were zealous adherents of the ancient faith. In the reign of Henry VIII., William Lucy, the father of Shakespeare’s Sir Thomas, the friend of Bishop Latimer, had more than once endeavoured to bring down the King’s displeasure on the citizens of Stratford for religious differences ; and more than once a riot had ensued, in which the Grevilles and the Combes, in conjunction with the Lucys, would have ridden roughshod over the burgesses, of whom Shakespeare’s father was afterwards high baUiff, if they had not been supported by the Cloptons and the Catesbys, as is shown by unpublished papers in the Record Office. The Lucys were powerful at the Court of the Tudors, for they had blood royal in their veins ; and as many of their opponents were Roman Catholics, or had relapsed from Protestantism to the old faith, one of their most effective instru- | ments for satisfying personal pique, under the garb j of patriotism, was to put in force the penal laws and the power of the Crown against their rivals. In a commission issued in 1 592 for persecuting and pre- senting recusants, directed to the Lucys and the Grevilles, and obtained apparently by their means, it is curious to observe that they jDresented as a recusant Mrs. Clopton, “ widow of William Clopton, esq.;” but in their second return, they proceed to rectify their convenient mistake by the naive admis- sion : Mrs. Clopton, presented as a recusant, was “mistaken, and goeth now to church!” In the same presentment, next to Henley-in-Arden, occurs the parish of Sombourne, with this notice : “ Mrs. Mary Arden, widow, presented for a wilful recusant before our last certificate, continues still obstinate in her recusancy,” and is accordingly indicted. By the same commissioners, John Shakespeare, the poet’s father, is returned as a recusant ; but this note is sub- joined in his case and in that of eight others : “ It is said that the last nine come not to church for fear of process for debt.” Now, though it is true that already, some six years before the date of this commission, Shakespeare’s father had fallen into difficulties and was deprived of his alderman’s gown, it is hardly probable, had he been notoriously affected towards the Protestant re- ligion, that his name would have been inserted in the return of the commissioners ; for the object of the commission was not so much to learn who absented themselves from the parish church, as to discover Jesuits, seminary priests, and papal emissaries, now, more than ever, busily engaged in sowing disaffection among the people of Warwickshire, and those who harboured them. The government of the day — as is clear from the cases cited by the commissioners — required attendance at church once a month ; that done, it did not trouble itself with inflicting further penalties, or requiring more distinct proofs of the recusant’s loyalty. John Shakespeare was a recu- sant in this sense, and the note was appended to explain the reason why he had not complied with the requirements of the government. If then he were a recusant in the ordinary use of the term, this might account for the pecuniary difficulties into which he fell some years before, when the government of Elizabeth exacted the fines for recusancy with unsparing severity. Charlecote Hall, both internally and externally, is prominently illustrated in this volume. Its charm- ing park is full of rich woodland scenery. There are two noble avenues of trees, each leading to the Elizabethan Gateway. The lime-tree avenue, may, perhaps, be of a later date than the age of Elizabeth; and one elm has evidently succeeded another from century to century. But there are old gnarled oaks and beeches dotted about the park. Its little knolls and valleys are the same as they were two centuries ago. The same Avon flows beneath the gentle eleva- tion on which the house stands, sparkling in the sunshine as brightly as when that house was first built. There may we still lie — Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along his wood, and doubt not that there was the place to which — A poor sequester’d stag. That from the hunter's aim had ta’en a hurt. Did come to languish. . is You Like It, Act ii. Scene i. I i ■' CHAR1.EC0TE.- LLFRARY. Charlecote Park. There may we still see — A careless herd, Full of the pasture, leaping gaily along, or crossing the river at their own will in search of fresh fields and low branches whereon to browse. Nothing can be more interesting than the constant variety which this beautiful river exhibits in the silent reach behind Charlecote. Now it passes under a high bank clothed with wood ; now a hill waving with corn gently rises from the water’s edge. Sometimes a flat meadow presents its grassy margin to the current which threatens to inundate it upon the slightest rise ; sometimes long lines of willow or alder shut out the land, and throw their deep shadows over the placid stream. Islands of sedge here and there render the channel unnavigable, except to the smallest boat. A willow thrusting its trunk over the stream reminds us of Ophelia : — There is a willow grows askaunt the brook That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream. A sfust of wind raises the underside of the leaves to view, and we then perceive the exquisite correctness of the epithet “ hoar.” Hawthorns, here and there, grow upon the water’s edge ; and the dog-rose spots the green bank with its faint red. That deformity, the pollard-willow, is not so frequent as in most rivers ; but the unlopped trees wear their feathery branches, as graceful as ostrich plumes. The gust which sings through that long colonnade of willows is blowing up a rain-storm. The wood-pigeons, who have been feeding on the banks, wing their way homewards. The old fisherman is hurrying down the current to the shelter of his cottage. He invites us to partake that shelter. His family are busy at their trade of basket-making ; and the humble roof, with its cheerful fire, is a welcome retreat out of the driving storm. It is a long as well as furious rain. We open the volume of Shakespeare’s own poems ; and we bethink us of the number of these which he may have composed, or partly shadowed out, wander- ing on this river-side, or drifting under its green banks, when his happy and genial nature instinctively shaped itself into song, as the expression of his sympathy with the beautiful world around him. The village of Charlecote is now one of the prettiest of objects. Whatever is new about it, — and most of the cottages are new, — looks like a restoration of what was old. The same character prevails in the neighbouring- village of Hampton Lucy; and it may not be too much to assume that the memory of him who walked in these pleasant places in his younger days, long before the sound of his greatness had gone forth to the ends of the earth, has led to the desire to preserve here something of the architectural character of the age in which he lived. There are a few old 59 houses still left in Charlecote ; but the more im- portant have been swept away. Falstaff. You have here a goodly dwelling, and a rich. Shallow. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all. Sir John : — marry, good air. King Henry IV, Part II. Act v. Scene 3. Of the many interesting spots associated with the name of Shakespeare, few perhaps have preserved their original features more unchanged than this famous seat of the Lucys, — the venerable hall of Charlecote. The village from which the mansion derives its name is situated on the eastern bank of the Avon, — Shakespeare’s native river, — about four miles north-east from the town of Stratford, and six miles south of Warwick. The hall was erected in the time of Queen Elizabeth, by Sir Thomas Lucy, the alleged prosecutor of Shakespeare for stealing the deer, whom the immortal bard has figured. The mansion may be taken as a fair specimen of the resi- dence of a wealthy country gentleman of the days of “ good Queen Bess;” and although some alterations have from time to time been effected in the building, its principal front still preserves its antique grandeur ; and no one can stroll through the beautiful English scenery with which it is surrounded without recalling to mind its classic interest. The old manor-house stands in a park of consider- able extent, luxuriously planted with trees of noble growth, amid which are the graceful windings of the silvery Avon ; whilst the gentle undulations of the ground, covered with a smooth velvet-like turf, are enlivened with herds of fallow deer. One side of the house looks down upon the river and towards Strat- ford ; and the opposite front opens into the old court, now a garden. Immediately south of the house, and within the demesne, the river Hele, which rises at Edgehill, flows tranquilly on its way, beneath a beau- tiful Rialto bridge, to unite its waters with the neigh- bouring stream, as has been referred to by Jago, a local poet, in the following lines : — Charlecote’s fair domain, Where Avon’s sportive stream delighted strays Through the gay, smiling meads, and to his bed Hele’s gentle current woos, by Lucy’s hand In every graceful ornament attired. And worthier such to share his liquid realms. The gateway is built in imitation of the ancient barbican. The mansion, which is constructed of brick, with stone dressings, consists of a spacious centre, with two projecting wings, and the four prin- cipal angles of the house are flanked each by a lofty octagonal turret, with a cupola and gilt vane. The entrance porch is of stone, elaborately ornamented. Over the door appear the arms of Queen Elizabeth, and on the summit of the whole, at the angles, are the royal supporters, in a sitting posture, each 6o Life of Shakespeare. supporting an upright banner in its claws. The great hall — always the principal feature in these fine old manor-houses — retains much of its original appear- ance : its oaken ceiling is arched and lofty, the chimney of ample dimensions, and the windows con- tain the armorial bearings of the Lucys and others, richly emblazoned in painted glass ; whilst around the walls are hung numerous portraits, and other paintings, connected with the history of the family. On the spacious mantelpiece are the initials of Sir Thomas Lucy, T. L. in large, old-fashioned letters, raised and gilt, together with the date of the building of the hall, 1558- There is also a cast of the bust of Sir Thomas, taken from his monument in Charlecote church, and among the portraits above mentioned, one of himself sitting at a table with his wife ; a large family piece containing a portrait of Sir Thomas — grandson of old Sir Thomas Lucy — his wife, and six children, painted by Cornelius Jansen, while on a visit here. The two youngest boys have also portraits as grown men in the hall, — Sir Fulke and Sir Richard Lucy. Besides those, there is a curious old view of the house and gardens as they appeared in Shake- speare’s time, and also various portraits of the Lucy family, — all however of very secondary interest, — the rare old Knight, so honoured and immortalized in his wrath of poaching, being the hero of the house. The scene of Shakespeare’s deer-stealing exploit is stated to have been the old park of Fulbrook Castle, — now demolished, — on the road leading to Warwick ; but it was in this hall that he is said to have been brought up for examination. The house has been much enlarged and embellished during the present century, two good rooms facing the river, a dining and drawing-room, having been ’ouilt. Besides the pictures in the hall, there are some good pictures scattered through the various rooms. Prior to the Norman invasion, the lordship of Char- lecote, — or Cerlecote, as it appears from the Domesday Book the name was then written, — was possessed by one Saxi, and it was subsequently held by the Earl of Mellent. It would seem to have derived its appellation from some ancient Saxon possessor, Ceorle being a name not unfrequently met with in very early times. From the Earl of Mellent, Charle- cote, with the rest of his lands, passed to his brother, Henry de Newburg, Earl of Warwick, and were inherited by Henry’s son Roger, Earl of Warwick, a partisan of the Empress Maud, and a munificent benefactor to the church, who enfeoffed Thurstane de Montfort with large possessions in the county of Warwick, of which Charlecote formed a minor por- tion. The estate of Charlecote was subsequently given by Henry de Montfort to Walter, the son of Thurstane de Charlecote, and the grant was confirmed by Richard I., who “ added divers immunities and privileges,” all of which were ratified by King John in 1203. In Dugdale’s “ Antiquities ” we read, “’Tis not unlikely that the said Thurstane de Cherlecote was a younger son unto the before-specified Thurs- tane de Montfort ; for, that he was paternally a Montfort, the MS. History of Wroxhall importeth, and that the same Thurstane was his father, not only the likelihood in point of time, but his Christian name doth very much argue.” Walter de Charlecote left at his decease a son, William, who changed his name to Lucy, about the close of the twelfth century, — a change Sir William Dugdale accounts for by the supposition that* his mother was an heiress of some branch of the Norman family which bore that de- signation. This gallant knight took up arms with the barons against King John, when all his lands were seized by the Crown ; but returning to his allegiance, he had a full restoration in the first year of the ensuing reign. Erom him derived in direct succession a long line of worthy knights, each of whom was greatly distinguished in the military proceedings of that period, whilst the family bore eminent sway in that part of the country through many generations. During the Wars of the Roses, the Lucys arrayed themselves under the banner of the House of York, and at the battle of Stoke, Edmund Lucy commanded a division of the Royal Army. His great-grandson. Sir Thomas Lucy, in the first year of Queen Eliza- beth’s reign, rebuilt, the manor-house of Charlecote as it now stands. He was an active justice of the peace, was knighted in the seventh year of Queen Elizabeth, and sat for some time in Parliament as one of the representatives of his native county. His alleged persecution of Shakespeare has, however, gained for him. more notoriety than any of the honours he enjoyed. The family bore for their arms three luces (pike-fish) hauriant d' argent, in the person of William, who, as above stated, assumed the name of Lucy ; so that Shakespeare is sufficiently warranted in satiri- cally causing Justice Shallow to affirm that his is “an old coat.” “ All liis ancestors that come after him,” says Slender, another member of this ancient family, “ may give the dozen white luces in their coat.” — “ Merry Wives of Windsor,” Act i. Scene i. The portrait and bust of Sir Thomas Lucy, in the hall at Charlecote, bear a striking resemblance to each other ; and although they do not give us any reason to suppose him such an imbecile as Shakespeare in his witty revenge has represented Justice Shallow, they have an air of formal conceit and self-sufficiency that accord wonderfully with our idea of the country knight, who would look on the assault of his deer as a most heinous offence, and would be very likely to hold his dignity sorely insulted by the saucy son of a Stratford woolcombcr, who had dared to affix a scandalous satire on his park-gate, % i j . Vy • 4 V \ • th > ’■- . M f \ kf iy .» L » 9 'Aj % 4i u \ r ^ ' An7ie Hathaway and Shottcry. and to make him ridiculous to all the country. After all, what Sir Thomas did was just what nine-tenths of the country gentlemen of that or this day would have done in like case. He appears to have dealt gently with the young man in the first instance ; and it was not until the ugly verses of — A parliament member, a justice of peace. At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, &c., were fixed on his gate by the vindictive pride of the embryo poet, that he began to threaten him with the serious visitation of the law. It is on record that John Foxe, the Martyrologist, was received by Sir Thomas Lucy at the time when he was obliged to fly for his life on account of his religion, and was deserted by every one besides, in Mary’s reign. And here the poor Shakesperian knight comes in for more of the world’s ill words, for it is added that Sir Thomas took care to have a good equivalent for his protection, by making Foxe the tutor of his children, and that, when that end was served, he dismissed him with little ceremony, and no care for his future provision. From Sir Thomas Lucy the lands of Charlecote descended to George Lucy, upon whose death in 1786 the male line expired. His extensive property de- volved on the Rev. John Hammond, grandson of the Rev. John Hammond, and Alice, his wife, daughter of Sir Fulke Lucy, who assumed in 1787 the surnames and arms of Lucy, and was the great-grandfather of the present Henry Spencer Lucy. The bestowers of titles may do worse than refasten the ancient handle on the Lucy name. The throne of Justice Shallow is wrongfully shorn of its dignity. None but a Sir Thomas should occupy it. From the Hall of Charlecote, an avenue, planted by Sir Thomas Lucy, leads across the park to the pretty little village church, in which reposes the dust of successive generations of the Lucy family. The building is in the Decorated style of Gothic architecture, and has been rebuilt at the expense of the widow of George Lucy. The Lucy chapel, which forms an interesting portion of the fabric, is separated from the body of the church by a screen of carved oak, and contains some monu- ments of the Lucy family, together with the hatch- ments of the different knights, with their hides (the three fishes, pikes) in the escutcheon, made so notorious by Shakespeare. Old Sir Thomas lies on his tomb in effigy, and his lady by his side ; her epitaph, which was written by Sir Thomas himself, is as follows : — All the time of her life, a true and faithful servant of her good God ; never detected of any crime or vice ; in religion, most sound ; in love to her husband, most faithful and true ; in friendship, most constant ; to what in trust was committed to her, most secret ; in wisdom, excelling ; in governing her home. 61 and bringing up of youth in the fear of God, that did converse with her, most rare and singular. A great maintainer of hos- pitality ; greatly esteemed of her betters, misliked of none, unless of the envious. When all is spoken that can be said, a woman so furnished and garnished with virtue as not to be bettered, and hardly to be equalled by any. As she lived most virtuously, so she died most godly : Set down by him that best did know What hath been written to be true. — Thomas Lucy. Sir Thomas’s son and successor, who appears to have only survived him five years, lies on his stately tomb by himself. His lady, in a black hood, is placed in a praying attitude in front of the tomb, thereby indicating that she was the sorrowful survivor, while on the plinth is a whole procession of little images of sons and daughters, two and two ; six sons on the panel before the mother, and eight daughters on that behind her. The tomb of the third Sir Thomas, grandson of the Sir Thoma.s, and his lady, is a very splendid one by Bernini, and was executed in Italy. The knight is represented in a recumbent position, leaning on his elbow, as if contemplating the effigy of his wife, whose figure and drapery are finely wrought. The scenery round the neighbourhood of Charle- cote is perhaps the most interesting of any associated with the name of Shakespeare. The grand old Elizabethan house, for the most part, presents the same appearance now as it did in the poet’s time ; and the gentle Avon flows, as brightly as of old, through its sunny lawns and deeply wooded glades, where the poet loved to roam. That the townspeople of Stratford cordially hated the Lucys, and were particularly anxious to avoid incurring their displeasure, is apparent from the records of the town printed by Mr. Halliwell. He selects numerous items of sack and sugar for the lips of Sir Thomas and his chief friends. Sir Fulke and Sir Edward Greville. In one entry, dated 1598, the chamberlain very bluntly records : “ Paid to Sir Fowle (sic) Greville, for nothing, 40Y. ! ” And again in 1601, in an action for trespass brought by Sir Edward Greville against the burgesses of Stratford, the name of John Shakespeare appears as a witness on behalf of the defendants. Shottery! Sweet Anne Hathaway!! His earliest Muse thus addressed her ; — If my soul check thee, that I come so near. Swear to my blind soul that I was thy Will, And will, my soul knows, is admitted there ; Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. The birthplace and home of the poet’s wife is within an easy walk of Stratford, being separated from it only by a few fields ; a public pathway existing for ages past, and this doubtless he trod when making 62 Life of Shakespeare. constant visits to his fair loved one. Until our rail- way days it was a thoroughly rural ramble ; now modern Stratford presses outwards in this direction, and the shriek of the steam-horse, and the railway approaches, have greatly marred the former quiet seclusion of the village. There is much, however, of the quaint and beautiful yet left. Pursuing our way across the fields so familiar to Shakespeare in his youthful days, we are quickly in Shottery, among the extremely picturesque and quaint cottages and farm-buildings existent in his day. How still and quiet and retired is the whole scene around and about these peculiarly quaint cottages and their surroundings! It is a placefor Shakespeare’s lovers and none other. We endeavour in our illustrations to portray, in all beauty and originality, such cottages as it may be presumed he well knew. The dwelling of his early love, his wife, his children’s mother, and where he spent his courting days, still exists in all its primitive character, with its timbered lath-and- plaster walls, its thatched roof, its dormer windows, and its wooden-latched doors. The dear antiquated Hatha- way Cottage is on the left-hand side of the road leading from Stratford, dropped, as it were, in a secluded nook, and surrounded by all that is suggestive of Arcadian times, and is approached through a thoroughly Eng- lish rustic wild sort of garden, beyond which, on a gentle elevation, is an orchard, where delicious fruit ripened in the early days of his romance. In front of the cottage, near the doorway, is the well, deep and moss-grown, where, by aid of the accustomed bucket, deliciously cool and refreshing draughts are ever ready on the hottest summer-day. How many thousands have here slaked thirst, and how increasingly great will the army of devotees yearly become, as time rolls onward, and his words of wisdom and profound knowledge of human life and action shall be more known and appreciated 1 What a privilege to drink at the same fountain at which he drank from the hand of sweet Anne I Her home here is a long low build- ing, exceedingly lovely to Shakespearians in its oddness, and is now divided into three tenements under the one roof, the central portion being that of the greatest interest. It contains the room which the Hathaways would make their family-room, and which served also the purposes of a kitchen and prin- cipal sitting apartment. It has a stone floor, a low ceiling, and a very large fire-place. This is, for a cot- tage of its pretension, a rather spacious and cheerful apartment, rendered specially cosy by its wide chimney, by the side of which is a cupboard for bacon, having carved on it the initials I. II. E. H. The walls were wain.scoted, but a greater part of the panelling is now removed. Altogether, this primitive, picturesque cot- tage home seems to savour of comfort and homely enjoyment, and indicates that the Hathaways were a well-to-do family in their time. As our American friends say, “ Will Shakespeare must have had a good time of it here with Anne.” Passing out of the dwelling-room, we gain a staircase which conducts to the upper chambers, in the first of which is preserved an ancient four-post bedstead of the Elizabethan day, most elaborately carved, and which unquestionably was the grand bed- stead of the reigning members of the Hathaway family during their several generations. All the rooms, and much of the surroundings of the place, retain their former character; and if the visitor desire to adhere to local faiths, he may without diffi- culty regard as venerable relics many things among its contents. Eoremost is the great state couch; it is even in our age of pretension a very marvel of chiseldom, and in Anne’s day must have been not less wonderful to all beholders. This princess of bedsteads has passed down from Shakespeare’s day as associated with Anne, and without any stretch of imagination the visitor will believe, that here, in this little chamber, she came into the world, and that perchance, reclining under the canopy supported by this carved grandeur, she sweetly slept and dreamt of Will, or how at eventide she sat by the open window to watch his longed-for coming through the pretty lane approach from Stratford. Question these thoughts as we may, they are uppermost in the heart and mind of every Shakespearian resting in this romantic home, so sacred to the memory of the world’s greatest writer. Time and lack of care have wrought their work here, as on the house of the poet’s parents, in Henley Street, Stratford. It is to be hoped that the cottage and orchard will ere long pass into the hands of the Shake- speare Trustees, to be preserved and cared for as the Henley Street Birthplace and New Place have already been. The Hathaway Cottage is seen to advantage from several points of view. It is charm- ing as beheld when first approached from the road- side. There is another equally good view to be had from the old orchard above, which retains the undulating character of its ancient day. Looked at from behind, we get a thoroughly country aspect of the place ; and each of these points of view is placed before our readers in our illustrations. The Eront View shows the general character of the cottage, with the vine, and other creepers clinging fondly to its walls ; the garden shaped and kempt so entirely according to rustic taste, and in its un- skilfulness so pleasant to the eye, conjuring up all sorts of fancies of his saunterings here with his sweet Anne. The Hathaways were old residents of the hamlet. Anne’s father was a substantial yeoman, quite on a par, in position, with the Shakespeare family. At the time of his marriage he was only in his nineteenth year; while she had reached the ^iifl ’wimsfium iMmA ^ ' '■■■f % ' \ * , 1 * / • ■ - , f V , r i •N - 1 . t* t -4 A > • *> ^ / V i . I N t ii f ■* Aniie Hathaway and S /lottery. maturer age of twenty-six. As a handsome, well- made young fellow, hazel-eyed and auburn-haired, with all his natural gifts, added to the wonted elas- ticity of spirits and frankness of youth, he must have formed a cynosure of attraction to the fair maidens of the neighbourhood. Not the least interesting and gratifying feature in the present holding of Anne Hathaway’s home, is the fact that Mrs. Baker, a nice, good body, who lives in it as the custodian deity, is herself a descendant of the Hathaways, and was born in the cottage. Her grandmother was a Hathaway, and the last occupant of the home who bore that name. The property has descended regularly from one generation to another, until Mrs. Baker’s unsentimental ancestor broke the chain, and ruthlessly exchanged it for coin. Happily his grandchild yet remains in occupation, and we trust she may close up life a contented dweller there ; for she is a very pattern showwoman, without a particle of the usual belongings of persons in such office. She allows visitors patiently to indulge their own thoughts and reflections, and enjoy the Shottery nesting-place after their own fashion. We can thus, in visiting Anne Hathaway’s Cottage, with its antique surroundings, contemplate it nearly in the same con- dition as when Shakespeare paid his love visits, whilst the fact of its being still tenanted by a descendant of his wife’s father, helps wonderfully to realize to visitors its many charming and romantic associations. The road from Trinity Church to Shottery has, since Shakespeare’s time, been known only as Love Lane. We all know how he wandered through it, and found a wife at the end of it. Others have, since his time, done the same, with the like happy results : notably, the present Vicar of Stratford, who went a wooing in the same direction, and has found a happy home in that quiet village. Anne Hathaway’s Cottage may be said to divide with her husband’s Birthplace in Stratford, the homage of Shakespearian pilgrims. There never has been any real doubting as to this cottage : its history has ever stood the test of rigid questioning, chiefly through a Hathaway having always been under its roof through all the generations from Sweet Anne downwards. It has been in the possession of the Hathaways for over three centuries, and as we have seen, even now a descendant in the female line is wife of the tenant, and acts as conductress through the romantic cot so dear to the literary world of all ages. It was repaired in 1697 by John Hathaway, and to keep it even in its existing state there must have been many a tinkering since then. All intelligent visitors will, on careful examination, be convinced that whatever changes may have come over it since Shakespeare crossed its threshold, the lover of its fair inmate, there is much remaining as it was when he 63 paid his wooing visits. Indeed, the whole village of Shottery would seem to be much the same as it must have been at that sunny time in the Poet’s life, when, after the exit of the schoolboy, he trod the stage of the world as the lover. And the fields through which the footpath leads, the hedges, the stiles, and the every aspect of the place, are, perhaps, but little altered from what they were three centuries ago. Here the fumitory thrives rankly conspicuous among — The idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn. The “ fumitory ” so generally found around Shotterjq recalls his ready and apt enumeration of the wild flowers plucked by Lear, when he w^as — Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow weeds. With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn. One of the Marquis of Hertford’s farm-houses at Shottery was originally part of a priory ; the roof of the chapel is plainly to be seen, of good gothic shape, over what is now the cheese-room of the farm-house. The garden at the back of the house is now called the Priory Garden. The inhabitants of Shottery used to have a chantry called St. Andrew’s, in the south aisle of Holy Trinity, Stratford : this was transferred to Shottery in 1392. Little is knowm regarding Shakespeare’s union with Anne Hathaway, beyond the circumstance that two friends accompanied the intended bride and bride- groom to Worcester, the seat of the diocese in which Stratford is situated, and there entered into a bond for the security of the bishop in licensing “ William Shagspere and Ann Hathweay ” to be married after only one proclamation of banns. The bond is pre- served in the Consistorial Registry at Worcester, and is dated November 28th, 1582. Notwithstanding the most diligent search of parish registers through this part of the diocese, no entry of the marriage has yet been found. It did not take place at Stratford, or its register so admirably kept and carefully preserved, would record it. Luddington is the church most favoured by tradition as the village in whose holy place the marriage was solemnized ; but its early registers were burned in a drunken row at a harvest- home, at a date prior to the interest and eagerness being manifested to ascertain facts in the life of the great author. The church Bible well nigh shared the same fate, having been rescued from the flames : it is now in the vestry of the new church. The old church fell into ruins about a century ago. A sketch of it will be found among our Illustrations. It was, in all probability, in this church that the poet’s mar- riage with Anne was solemnized. There is a tradi- tion to that effect existing in the neighbourhood. 64 Life of Shakespeare. indeed, it amounts to a general belief. The then Vicar of Luddington had been Head Master of the Guild Grammar School when Shakespeare was edu- cated there, this would account for the selection. The new church is a perfect gem, designed by Mr. John Cotton, of Birmingham, and much ornamented by Mr. John Baldwin, of Luddington. In Shake- speare’s day it often occurred that previous to any marriage rite in the church, there was a previous betrothal or espousal before witnesses, which in those times was regarded as a valid marriage, provided the ratification of the union by the rites of the Church took place within a reasonable time after- wards. We may be sure that his own betrothal to sweet Anne in the very early days of his own manhood, was uppermost in his thoughts when penning this beauteous passage in the “ Winter’s Tale — Florizel. O, hear me breathe my life Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem. Hath sometime loved ; I take thy hand; this hand, As soft as dove’s down, and as white as it ; Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fann’d snow. That’s bolted by the northern blasts twice o’er. Polixenes. What follows this ? — How prettily the young swain seems to wash The hand was fair before ! — I have put you out : — But to your protestation ; let me hear What you profess. Flo. Do, and be witness to’t. Pol. And this my neighbour too ? Flo. And he, and more Than he, and men ; the earth, the heavens, and all ; That, were I crown’d the most imperial monarch, Thereof most worthy ; were I the fairest youth That ever made eye swerve ; had force, and knowledge. More than was ever man’s, I would not prize them. Without her love : for her, employ them all; Commend them, and condemn them, to her service. Or to their own perdition. Pol. Fairly offer’d. Cam. This shows a sound affection. Shcp. But my daughter, Say yoji the like to him ? Per. I cannot speak So well, nothing so well ; no, nor mean better : By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out The purity of his. Shep. Take hands, a bargain; And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to’t : I give my daughter to him, and will make Her portion equal his. Flo. O, that must be I’ the virtue of your daughter ; one being dead, I shall have more than you can dream of yet ; Enough then for your wonder : But, come on. Contract us ’fore these witnesses. Shep. Come, your hand; And, daughter, yours The following is a copy ot the Marriage Licence document in the Consistorial Court of Worcester, which was first published by Mr. Wheler in 183C, having been previously discovered by Sir R. Phillips. It consists of a bond to the officers of the Ecclesiastical Court, in which Fulk Sandells, of the county Warwick, farmer, and John Rychardson, of the same place, farmer, are bound in the sum of forty pounds, &c. It is dated the 28th day of November, in the 25th year of Elizabeth (1582): — “Novint univsi p psentes nos Fulcone Sandells de Stratford in Comit Warwic agricolam et Johem Rychardson ibm agricola teneri et firmiter obligari Rico Cosin gnoso et Robto Warmstry notario puo in quadraginta libris bone et legalis monete Anglise solvend eisdem Rico et Robto hered executvel assignat suis ad quam quidem soluconem bene et fidelr faciend obligam nos et utruq nrm p se pro toto et in solid haered executor et administrator nros firmiter p pntes sigillis nris sigillat. Dat 28 die Nove Anno Regni Dne nre Eliz Dei gratia Angliae Franc et Hibniae Regine Fidei Defensor &c. 25“. “ The condicon of this obligacon ys suche, that if hereafter there shall not appere any lawfull lett or impediment by reason of any p contract or affinitie, or by any other lawful meanes whatsoev, but that Willm Shagspere on thone ptie, and Anne Hathwey, of Stratford, in the Dioces of Worcester, maiden, may lawfully solemnize mriony, and in the same after- wards remaine and continew like man and wife, according unto the laws in that case provided ; and moreov, if there be not at this psent time any action, suit, quarrel, or demand, moved or depending before any judge ecclesiastical or temporall for and concerning any suche lawfull lett or impediment. And moreov, if the said Willm Shagspere do not pceed to solemnizacon of marriadg with the said Ann Hathwey without the consent of hir frinds. And also if the said Willm do upon his own pper cost and expences defend and save harmles the Right Revend Father in i God Lord John Bushop of Worcester and his ofifycers, i for licensing them, the said Willm and Anne, to be I maried together wth once asking of the bannes of i mriony betwene them and for alle other causes wch ! may ensue by reason or occasion thereof that then j the said obligacon to be voyd and of none effect, or I else to stand and abide in fulle force and vertue.” Halliwell says the bond sufficiently proves that the [ marriage must have taken place with the consent j of the Hathaways, and the bride’s father was most i likely present when Sandells and Richardson executed I the bond, for one of the seals has the initials R. H. j upon it. There can be little doubt that the connexion met with the approval of Shakespeare’s parents, for there was no disparity of means or station to occasion ' V, ’ '■ ■k- -a I ^ .1 1 ! ) 65 A nm Hathaway a7id Shottei'y. their dissent, and the difference between their ages was not sufficient to raise it into any reasonable obstacle. Nothing can be more erroneous than the conclusions generally drawn from the marriage bond. Anne Hathaway is there described as of Stratford, but so are the two bondsmen, who, as the registers show, were respectable neighbours of the Hathaways of Shottery. It has been said that Sandells and Richard- son were rude, unlettered husbandmen, unfitted to attend a poet’s bridal. They could not, it is true, write their own names, but neither could Shakespeare’s father, nor many of the principal inhabitants of Strat- ford. Richardson was a substantial farmer, as appears from the inventory of his goods made in 1594, his friend Sandells being one of the persons engaged in its compilation. The epithet husbandman did not denote that inferior condition which those who have reasoned on the bond have generally imputed to it. When Robert Myddylton, “ pryste and chaunter in the College of Stratford,” made his will in 1538, still preserved at Worcester, he named for his executors '' William Wyllshay, pryste and vicare of the College of Warwicke, and Thomas Cole, husbandman, in Shottery.” The husbandman of Shottery was, then, not necessarily a “ heavy ploughman.” If one hus- bandman could with propriety be a priest’s executor, surely another might sign a bond without the circum- stance creating mysterious argument. Anne Hathaway, as appears from her monumental inscription in Stratford Church, was born in the year 1556, and was therefore eight years older than her husband. With this fact in view, and relying on very uncertain allusions in his plays and sonnets, it has been conjectured that Shakespeare’s marriage was not pro- ductive of domestic happiness. For this opinion not a fragment of direct evidence has been produced ; and on equally potent grounds might we prove him to have been jealous, or, in fact, to have been in his own person the actual representative of all the passions he describes in the persons of his characters. But “ his wife and daughters did earnestly desire to be lay’d in the same grave with him,” as the clerk informed Dowdall in the year 1693. “ Would you desire better sympathy.?” It is furnished by the pleasing memorial of filial affection in the chancel of Stratford Church ; a monument raised by her daughter, which tells us how revered was Anne Shakespeare’s memory, and plainly teaches us to infer she possessed “as much virtue as could die.” Such a being must have lived happily with the “ gentle Shakespeare,” Ubera tu, mater, tu lac vitamque dedisti ! Va: mihi ! pro tanto munere saxa dabo. It is needless to refer to the idle sayings of the would-be-wise as to Shakespeare’s estrangement from Anne. Happily he has himself left the most trium- phant testimonies of his strong and changeless affec- tion to her, and that it was in the depth of domestic existence that he found his real happiness. To him everything was Anne Hathaway, but especially all wisdom, goodness, beauty, and delight took from her their existence, and gave to her their qualities. She was, in brief, the sun round which the rest of creation must needs take its course. If we doubt this, let us rest on the beautiful Sonnet thus speaking : — Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love That alters when it alteration finds, Or be?ids with the remover to remove. O, no ! it is an ever fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken. It is the star of every wandering bark. Whose work’s unknown, although his height be taken. Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come ; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But hears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and tipon me proved, 1 7iever writ, nor no man ever loved. Never have any lines been penned, more deeply and eternally expressive of the sentiment of affection springing from the soul than these. Whoever has slandered Shakespeare must have done so in ignorance of their existence. As Howitt properly puts it : — He, like other men, had fallen into errors he was the first most earnestly and eloquently to avoid ; but where was the man that after having won the fame that he had, and passed through the Circean enchantments of metropolitan beauty and splendour and wit as he had, ever gave so marvellous a proof that his heart of hearts was not in them, but that his only hope and idea of true happiness was in his native fields, and in the home of his wedded affection ? What accuser could venture to stand up against such a man, after reading the very next Sonnet, the continuation in fact of the former ? Accuse me thus — that I have scanted all. Wherein 1 should your great deserts repay ; Forget upon your dearest love to call. Whereto all bonds do tie me, day by day ; That 1 have frequent been with unknown minds. And given to them your own dear purchased right ; That I have hoisted sail to all the winds. Which should transport me further from your sight. Book both my wilfulness and errors down ; And on joint proof surmise accumulate ; Bring me within the level of your frown. But shoot not at me in your waken’d hate. Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove The constancy and virtue of your love. That his long absence (for there is nothing to show that his wife ever left Stratford to reside with him in London) had occasioned some misunderstanding and estrangement between them, would appear from several of his Sonnets, which arc the only records left of his life and internal feelings ; but the sorrow and K 66 Life of Shakespeare. repentance he expresses, are more than enough to unbend the brow of the sternest judge, much more of a tender, loving wife. O never say that I was false of heart. Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify ! As easy might 1 from myself depart, As from my soul which in thy heart doth lie. That is my home of love ; if 1 have ranged, Like him that travels, I return again ; Just to the time, not with the time exchanged ; So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe, though in my nature reign’d All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood. That it could so preposterously be stain’d, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ; For nothing this wide universe 1 call Save thou my rose, in it thou art my all. Alas ! tis true, I have gone here and there. And made myself a motley to the view ; Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear. Made old offences of affections new. Most true it is that I have look’d on truth Askance and strangely ; but by all above These blenches gave my heart another youth. And worst essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, save what shall have no end : Mine appetite 1 never more will grind On newer proof to try an older friend, A god in love to whom I am confined. Then give me welcome next my heaven the best. Even to thy pure, and most, most loving breast. O for my sake do you with fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. That did not better for my life provide Than public means, which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand ; Pity me then and wish 1 was renew’d ; Whilst like a willing patient I will drink Potions of lysell ’gainst my strong infection, No bitterness that 1 will bitter think. No double penance to correct correction ; Pity me, then, dear friend, and 1 assure ye, Even that your pity is enough to cure me. Shakespeare and the Scenery of Warwick- shire. Among the elucidators of Shakespeare through his home and neighbourhood, none have written in a more charming style, or with greater truth, simplicity, and fairness than John R. Wise, who justly says of this great author : — “Had we seen him, most likely we should have found him a man like ourselves, greater because he was not less but more of a man, suffering terribly from all the ills to which flesh is heir ; and we should have been disappointed and said, ‘ Is this all, is this what we came out to see ?’ and proved ourselves in all probability mere valets to the hero. It is better as it is.” Though springing from an excellent feeling, it is a mistaken wish to see, with the physical eye, the world’s great men. The least part of a great man is his material presence. It is better for us each to draw our own ideal of Shakespeare ; to picture his face, as calm and happy and gentle, as his friends declare his spirit to have been ; yet not unseared by mis- fortune and chastened by the divine religion of sorrow. It is better as it is. We know not for certain even his likeness, or his form. The earth-dress falls away, the worthless mortal coil is shuffled off, and only what is pure and noble, the essence of all that is great in the man, remains for evermore, as a precious birthright to all the world. A more reasonable wish is one, also often heard, that we had some diary of Shakespeare, some of his private letters to his wife or his children, or even a correspondence with Ben Jonson. Probably even this is not to be regretted. Ben Jonson’s corre- spondence has been brought to light, and, alas ! he has been found out to have been a poor government spy. And though of Shakespeare we can confidently trust : — That whatever record leap to light, He never shall be shamed ; yet perhaps it is better as it is. The gods should live by themselves. And as was the case with the physical, so with the spiritual man, it is be.st for us to draw our own ideal. Of the greatest poets who have ever lived, the world knows nothing. Homer is to us only a name. Of the singer of the Nibeliingen Lied we know not so much as that. And yet all that is good and noble of them remains to us. We surely will not grudge our Shakespeare their happy lot. The truest biographer of Shakespeare, it has been well said, is the most earnest student of his plays. Even did we possess the private letters and diaries of Shakespeare, what use could we make of them } One man only has been born, since Shake- speare died, fit to write his history, and that man, Goethe, is a foreigner. Most biographies, even where the amplest information abounds, are mere catalogues of dates, a history of what the great man eats and drinks, and wherewithal he is clothed. To know Shakespeare’s life would undoubtedly be i to know one of the highest lives ever lived. To know his struggles, for struggles he had, bitter as ever man endured, his Sonnets alone would testify ; to trace how from darkness he fought his way to light, how he moulded circumstances, how he bore up against fortune and misfortune, were indeed to know a history such as we cannot expect ever now to have revealed. Still the wish Avill ever linger that we did possess some scraps of information. We ever shall care to know what we can about our greatest men ; it is the one feeling that will last to all time : and this love, this reverence for the good and great men of the 6? Shakespeare and the Scenery of Warwickshire. earth, is amongst the best traits in our human nature. We will not blame even that feeling which hoards up Garrick cups, and mulberry tooth-picks as treasures ; even this, in its way, is a testimony to the infinite worth of true greatness. Search for records and deeds and allusions to Shakespeare is continuous, but not one scrap, not a half-sheet of paper of Shakespeare’s handwriting ever turns up : the most painful search adds but little to our knowledge ; nothing beyond a name or two, or another date or so. His life is at best but a collection of fines and leases ; everything connected with his private life perished with him ; when he died he carried with him his secret. No external history could of course reveal to us the fount of his inspira- tion : that is just as visible now, as ever, to the seeing eye, and the sympathetic love of any reader. But the man himself, what he did here on earth, how he struggled with outward circumstances, and how from being the apprentice to a butcher or a woolstapler he rose to become the writer of “ Hamlet,” we know not. It is idle to say that this is of second-rate importance, and that Shakespeare’s inner life, which may be gleaned from his writings, is alone worth knowing ; men ever will wish to know his exterior life. All that can be said is that here was Shakespeare born, and here he died ; here in the archives of the town the only information about him and his family exists ; and here, still more important, is the country where he rambled when a boy, and which he loved when a man ; and here people still come, day after day, on a pilgrimage to his house, showing that hero- worship is not dead, proving that even in these days the world pays homage to its great men. It is a most happy circumstance that Shakespeare should have been born in I That shire which we the heart of England well may call, as his fellow-countryman Drayton sings, and that his childhood should have fallen amidst such true rural English scenery ; for it is from the storehouse of childhood that in after-years we draw so much wealth. Happy, indeed, was it that his home should have been amongst the orchards and woodlands round Stratford, and the meadows of the Avon. The per- fection of quiet English scenery is it, such as he him- self has drawn in the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and “The Winter’s Tale,” and “ As You Like It,” and a hundred places. Who will not hold the theory of the effects of local causes on a poet’s mind, remember- ing what the poets themselves have said } Coleridge declared that the memories of his youth were so graven on his mind, that when a man, and far away from the spot, he could still sec the river Otter flow- ing close to him, and hear its ripple as plainly as when in years long past he wandered by its side ; and Jean Paul Richter, when lamenting how greatly the absence of the sea had affected his writings, ex- claimed, “ I die without ever having seen the ocean ; but the ocean of eternity I shall not fail to see.” And just as climate modifies the physical condition of a nation, so scenery affects the mental condition of a poet. The saying of Thucydides, avhpwv iirixfiavcov Trdcra 7I) ra^o?, will bear reversing, and all the earth is as truly the birthplace of a great man as his grave ; yet we believe that the quiet fields round Stratford, and the gentle flow of the Avon, so impressed them- selves upon Shakespeare’s mind, that his nature partook of their gentleness and quietness. Take any of his plays and we find glimpses there of the scenery round Stratford. His maidens ever sing of “blue-veined violets,” and “daisies pied,” and “ pansies that are for thoughts,” and “ ladies’-smocks all silver-white,” that still stud the meadows of the Avon. We catch pictures of the willows that grow ascaunt the brooks, showing the under-part of their leaves, so white and hoar, in the stream ; and of orchards, too, when The moon tips with silver all the fruit-tree tops. It is no exaggeration to say that nowhere in England are meadows so full of beauty as those round Strat- ford. Look on them by the river-side in early spring burnished with gold ; and then later, a little before hay-harvest, chased with orchisses, and blue and white milkwort, and yellow rattle-grass, and tall moon-daisies : and nowhere are woodlands sweeter than those round Stratford, filled with the soft green light made by the budding leaves, and paved with the golden ore of primroses, and their banks veined with violets. The finest part of Drayton’s “ Polyolbion ” is the thirteenth book, where he describes the scenery of his native Warwickshire, and of his “old Arden.” He is describing the country in Shakespeare’s time, Drayton being born only one year before Shake- speare : — Brave Warwick that abroad so long advanced her Bear, By her illustrious Earls renowned everywhere : Above her neighbouring shires which always bore her head. My native country, then, which so brave spirits hast bred. If there be virtues yet remaining in thy earth. Or any good of thine thou bredst into my birth. Accept it as thine own, whilst now I sing of thee. Of all thy later brood the unworthiest though I be. ***** When Phoebus lifts his head out of the watery wave. No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave. At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring. But Hunt’s up to the morn, the feather’d sylvans sing ; And, in the lower grove, as on the rising knoll. Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole. There quiresters are perch’d, with many a speckled Ijreast : Then from her burnish’d gates the goodly glittering East Gilds every mountain top, which late the humorous night Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning’s sight ; K 2 68 Life of Shakespeare. On which, the mirthful quires, with their clear open throats Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes, That hills and valleys ring, and e’en the echoing air Seems all composed of sounds about them everywhere. The throstle with shrill sharps, as purposely he sung To awake the listless sun, or chiding that so long He was in coming forth that should the thickets thrill ; The woosel near at hand, that hath a golden bill. As nature him had mark’d, of purpose t’ let us see That from all other birds his tunes should different be : ' For with their vocal sounds they sing to pleasant May ; i Upon his dulcet pipe the merle doth only play. j When, in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by. In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply. As though the other birds she to her tunes would draw. But the passage does but faint justice to the sweetness of the birds in the Warwickshire woodlands. The reader will remember how, in the “ Midsummer _ _ I Night’s Dream,” Shakespeare sings of the nightingale, and the “ousel-cock with his orange tawney bill,” and “ the throstle with his note so true and they may still all be heard singing as sweetly as ever in the woods around Stratford. All this, and the tenderness that such beauty gives, we find in the pages of Shakespeare ; and it is not too much to say that he painted them, because they were ever associated in his mind with all that he held precious and dear, both of the earliest and the latest scenes of his life. It was well that Shakespeare was born here. And we dwell especially upon his love for flowers, — a love always manifested by our great poets : by Spenser, and Chaucer, and Milton, who seem to regard them with a human sympathy, and to endow them, too, with human feelings. So Shakespeare loved, as Lord Herbert of Cherbury would have said, “ our fellow-crea- tures the plants;” and so speak Imogen and Perdita of them, and so, too, Ophelia. Violets Ophelia would have given to her brother ; but they died all, when her father died. We dwell also upon this love for flowers, because we must remember that God has given them, as it were, as a peculiar gift to the poor (that is, to the great body of mankind), for their | delight and their contemplation. Other things they ! have not — pictures, nor gardens, nor libraries, nor , sculpture-galleries ; but flowers they always have, ' and it is the contemplation and the love of them that j distinguishes us from the beast of the field. Happy indeed, therefore, was Shakespeare’s lot to have been born in the country among such scenes ! far happier than befell his great fellow-poets, Spenser and Milton, both born in the turmoil of London. And surely, too, it was well that he was born amongst country rustics, and that from the scenes of early life he was able to gather strength, and to idealize, with- out weakening their reality, his Christopher Slys, his | Quinces the carpenters, and his Snugs the joiners, | such as we may easily conceive he saw and knew in his boyhood. It is his greatest merit that he should have drawn them, for there is nothing insignificant in humanity, and the humblest man is by no means the worthless thing generally thought. In painting these rough forms so lovingly, we may detect Shakespeare’s true greatness of mind. And the simple thought that nature has made the most numerous of the world’s family these same so-called common men, might inspire us with a wish to know and to love them. By painting them, Shakespeare could better paint the complexities and troubles of daily life, with its hard toil, such as will last as long as the world lasts. These things may not in themselves appear of the importance we rate them ; we know, however, that by them millions of human beings are strangely affected ; and we cannot too often repeat that Shakespeare’s chief excellence lies in this, that he has not drawn mere lay-figures, but human, breathing, complex men and women — not Romans, not Greeks, but simply men ; that he has never obtruded mere party creeds, but given us true religion ; never painted mere finite systems, but true perennial human sym- pathy ; and that he has never forgotten the broad principle, that whether Saxon or Celt, Jew or Gentile, we are all brothers ; that, in fact, to use his own words, he has ever “ held the mirror up to nature,” reflecting there all forms and shapes, but reflecting them with the charity that looks upon a brother’s shortcomings in pity, knowing well how utterly impossible it is to judge another. Well would it be if the so-styled Christians of our day and time inherited but a tithe of his grand catholic spirit. He knew and felt love in the Almighty’s intended sense. There are two thousajid one hundred and sixty-three lines in 02ir Great Author s works in luhieJi the zvord “ Love ” is mentioned. Shakespeare as an Author and Actor in London. The exact year in which Shakespeare abandoned Stratford for the Metropolis cannot now be ascer- tained, nor yet the motive or the manner of his departure. It has been assumed that he quitted his native town shortly after his marriage with Anne Hathaway. The birth of a daughter, Susannah, in May 1583, followed by twins, Hamnet and Judith, in 1585, has been adopted as a sufficient reason why he should leave a place and occupation in which his father had not apparently prospered, and enter upon a profession more congenial to the bent of his genius. A story, handed down by the Parish Clerk of Strat- ford in 1693, who was then upwards of eighty years old, contains the only seemingly trustworthy record of this period of the poet’s life. According to this statement, Shakespeare was apprenticed to a butcher, left his master, went to London, and “ there was Ancient Sketch of Martyrdom of Sir Tliomas :i Becket, for- merly in Holy Guild Church, Stratford. Old Church, formerly at Luddingtoii, and in which Shakespear is believed to have been married. The Shakespeare Baptismal Font, as it stood in Captain Saun- ders’ Garden prior to its return to Holy Trinity Church. Interior of Old Tabard Yard. 69 Shakespeare as an A tithor and A ctor hi London. received into the playhouse as a servitor, and by this [ means had an opportunity to be what he afterwards proved.” That the substance of the story is correct, though it may have suffered from the manner of the telling, can hardly be doubted, considering the autho- rity from which it emanates. It is quite certain, at all events, that considerations j either of taste, or of prudence, or of necessity, induced | Shakespeare in early manhood to seek a livelihood in the centre of English commercial and intellectual activity. But here again dark clouds intercept our prospect of this coming daybreak of his glory. We have no means whatever of fixing the date even of his arrival on this great scene of his labours. It pro- bably took place some time about the year 1586 ; but it may have happened, for all that we know with any certainty, a few years earlier, or even later — although this is more unlikely. After having once reached London he soon became connected, in some capacity or another, with the stage. This was the profession to which the whole bent of his genius must have instinctively directed him ; it is the only one we find any trace of his having ever embraced in the Metropolis ; and we are acquainted with circumstances which we can easily perceive may have influenced him in making this choice of a career, even before he had left his native town. We have seen that theatrical companies frequently visited Stratford in the days of his youth, and that several different companies performed there in the Corporation Hall, during his father’s tenure of the office of bailiff, in the year 1 569 ; and we know that Burbage, and some other of their leading members, came, like himself, originally from Warwickshire. On Shakespeare’s first arrival in London, the Globe Theatre, on the Bankside, and the Blackfriars Theatre, belonging to the same company, were the most in vogue. We know that in 1594 he was one of what was called the Lord Chamberlain’s servants, who usually performed at the Blackfriars Theatre. This building was raised in 1576, and stood in Play-house Yard, to the east of the present Apothecaries’ Hall. All the narrow streets of this immediate locality in rear of Ludgate Hill Railway Station now bid fair rapidly to disappear. The vanquishing hand of modern improvement has ruthlessly seized them. He was doubtless connected with both these theatres, as in them all his plays were subsequently performed. The same company built the Globe Theatre, on the Bankside, near the south end of old London Bridge, in the year 1594. This is ascertained from the fact that Burbage, as the representative of the company, signed a bond for the construction of this theatre Dec. 22nd, 1593 - The company performed at the Globe in summer, and at the Blackfriars in winter, until the commencement of the seventeenth century. when the latter house appears for several years to have passed out of their hands. The Globe was the more spacious building, but it afforded no sufficient protection from the severity of the weather. It was burned down June 29th, 1613, in consequence of the thatch having taken fire from the wadding used in discharging a small cannon. In 1603 the company consisted of Laurence Fletcher, William Shakespeare, Richard Burbage, Augustine Phillipes, John Heminge, and Henry Condell, Shakespeare’s literary executors. t their age. The public theatres named were mean and j incommodious buildings, and were without any move- ' able painted scenery ; they were hexagonal, and built ! of wood, partly thatched and partly open, and the per- formances generally, if not always, took place in the afternoon, then the idlest time of the day. Throughout the reign of Elizabeth they were often open on the Sundays as well as on the other days of the week. There were no women in any of the com- panies, and the female characters were always per- sonated by boys, who occasionally wore vizards. We need hardly stop to observe how strongly this latter circumstance is calculated to add to our astonishment at the enchantment which the poet has thrown over his Juliets, and his Rosalinds, and his Mirandas. The performances commenced at three o’clock in the afternoon. Rooms or boxes were provided for the wealthier classes, the admission to which varied from a shilling to half-a-crown ! whilst the frequenters of the pit either stood or sat on the ground. Under those circumstances, we may take it for granted that immediately after his arrival in London i he found employment in one or other of the theatres ; but in attempting to discover what was the exact nature of that employment we encounter another of our many Shakespearian perplexities. The only positive statement upon the subject is one which is supported by a singularly complicated, and, so far, a specially unsafe, chain of testimony. According to Rowe, “ he was received into the company at first in a very mean rank,” and this announcement coincides with the information communicated to Dowdall by the Parish Clerk of Stratford, in the year 1693, that “he was received into the playhouse as a serviture.” In March 1613, Shakespeare purchased a house in the Blackfriars, London, which is described as “ abut- ting upon a street leading down to Puddle Wharf on the east part, right against the King’s Majesty’s Wardrobe.” The price was 140/., but of this sum he only paid 80/., and mortgaged the premises for the balance. On the mortgage being subsequently paid off, he leased the house for a term of years to John Robinson, whose descendants continued to inhabit at least the same locality till within the last twenty years. A house is, or was till lately, pointed out near 70 Life of 'Shakespeare. St. Andrew’s Church, as having been that which belonged to Shakespeare, but this is only matter of popular tradition. The counterpart of the indenture by which Shakespeare became possessed of the Blackfriars property leased to Robinson, is still to be seen, with his signature attached to it, in the Library of the Corporation of the City of London at the Guildhall. The document was purchased in 1841 for 145/., and was discovered in 1768 ; and after having been for some years in the possession of David Garrick, was supposed to have been lost. It was again, however, recovered, and was sold by auction in 1858, when it was purchased by the Trustees of the British Museum for 315/. To it is attached the only other indisputable signature of Shakespeare at present known to be in existence, with the exception of the three inserted in his will. The deed of mortgage signed by Shake- speare is also still preserved. These two signatures of the poet, with the three by which his will is sub- scribed, constitute the only unquestioned autographs by him now known to exist. In the deeds, he is described as “ William Shakspeare of Stratforde-upon- Avon, in the Countie of Warwick, gentleman,” from which it would appear that by this time, at all events, he had ceased to reside in London. We learn little or nothing of the poet’s place of residence in the city in which he first gave those great creations to the world. In the year 1596 he lived in Southwark, “near the Bear Garden,” according to a statement Malone found in a paper which once be- longed to Alleyn, the player, but of which no trace can now be discovered. In a subsidy roll, dated October ist, 1598, he is assessed on property of the value of 5/. in the parish of St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate ; but we cannot therefore conclude that he ever resided in that district ; and most probably he did not long retain the property itself, whatever it may have been, as his name does not appear in a similar document drawn up two years afterwards. We think we may fairly assume that any establishment he maintained in London was always of an unpretending and inex- pensive description, and that throughout his life, but more especially from the period of his purchase of New Place, in 1597, he did not consider the Metro- polis as his settled place of abode, but wished to be be known as William Shakespeare, gentleman, of Stratford-upon-Avon. No account is to be made of the document which professes to describe Shakespeare as holding a share in the theatre as early as 1596. With that falls to the ground the whole modern hypothesis that as sharer or manager his time was employed in patching up the productions of other dramatists, older or con- temporary, and fitting them for the stage. What with .sonnets, poems, plays of his own, once a year, and acting in his own plays and those of his contem- ! poraries, what room, occasion, need, or opportunity j could Shakespeare have had for such an employ- ment } The poet’s daily habits during his stay in the busy centre of English life, and the friendships which he there formed, must now be regarded as another of the unknown episodes in his history. Of his personal demeanour we learn little more than that he was a man of courteous and flowing address, and of an easy and sociable temper. It is some proof of his com- panionable character that he was known among his associates, in their more unrestrained moments, under the familiar name of “ Will,” and that in their more serious moods he was for them the “ gentle ” Shake- speare. The personal appearance itself of the poet seems almost wholly to elude our curiosity. Davies, of Hereford, in his “ Microcosmos,” published in 1603, commends in Shakespeare and Burbage, their — “ Wit, courage, good shape, good parts, and all good.” It is much more difficult to trace the life of Shake- speare in London than in his native town of Stratford. In 1598 his position as an actor must have been of the highest class of the then time. In the list of the principal comedians who performed, in that year, in Ben Jonson’s “Every Man in his Humour,” our dramatist’s name stands first. A close friend- ship appears to have subsisted between Ben Jonson and Shakespeare, and tradition speaks of an im- portant service rendered by the latter to the former in procuring a reception by the theatrical managers of Jonson’s first play, which they had just superci- liously rejected. A great resort of the literary heroes of the day was the Mermaid Tavern in Friday Street, where a club had been founded by Sir Walter Raleigh ; and here Elizabeth’s favourite knight, with Shakespeare, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Camden, Selden, and ethers enjoyed “ the feast of reason and the flow of soul.” The quaint and ingenious Fuller, who belonged to a succeeding generation, thus cha- racterizes the two great dramatists as they appeared at these brilliant reunions : — “ Many were the wit- combats betwixt him [Shakespeare] and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish great galleon and an English man-of-war. Master Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in learning, solid but slow in his performances ; Shakespeare, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention.” An anecdote from “Merry Passages and Jeasts,” compiled by Sir Nicholas Lestrange’ during the Civil Wars, and preserved in the Harleian MSS., is worthy of mention. The authority given for it is the poet Donne. The metal lattai on which the point of the Shakespeare as a7i Atithor and A dor in London. joke turns, was an alloy resembling brass closely in appearance and composition. “ Shakespeare was god- father to one of Ben Jonson’s children, and after the christening, being in a deepe study, Jonson came to cheere him up, and askt him why he was so melan- choly. ‘ No, faith, Ben,’ sayes he, ‘ not I ; but I have beene considering a great while what should be the fittest gift for me to bestow upon my godchild, and I have resolved at last.’ ‘ I prithee what ? ’ sayes he. ‘ /’ faith, Ben, I'll e'en give him a douzen good Lattm spoones, and thou shalt traiislate thcml " Jonson, it is well known, was a good classical scholar, and even something of a pedant. It is fair to assume that the performances of Shakespeare’s plays must have been very popular on their first production in London, and that they con- tinued so during the whole period of his connexion with the theatres there. We see no reason to doubt his continually at this time paying visits to his dear home of Stratford, and that his yearning to retire there, and enjoy a peaceful rural life, contributed largely to his success, by inspiring zeal and energy in his joint calling of author and theatrical proprietor. Shakespeare’s plays must have been acting in nearly all the places of amusement then existing in the Metropolis. So rapidly, apparently, did theatres spring up, that in 1578, John Stockwood, a Puri- tanical preacher, published a sermon in which he asserted that there were then eight “ ordinary places ” in and near London for dramatic exhibitions, and that the united profits were not less than 2000/. a year, or about io,ooo/. reckoned in the money of the present day. A person calling himself “ a soldier,” writing to Secretary Walsingham, in January, 1586, states that “ every day in the week the players’ bills are set up in sundry places of the city and from documents preserved at Oxford, we learn that in the period 1587 — 1590, sums of money were from time to time paid by the authorities to companies of players, to induce them to quit the town, or refrain from the exercise of their profession, which was believed to have an injurious influence in withdrawing the atten- tion of the University youth from their studies. A similar jealousy of theatrical entertainments seems to have actuated the minds of the Corporation of London, as in the patent which the Earl of Leicester obtained under the great seal from Queen Elizabeth in 1574, and which resulted in the establishment of the Blackfriars Theatre, permission is granted to his players, James Burbage, John Perkyn, John Lanham, and Robert Wilson, to perform “ comedies, tragedies, interludes, and stage-plays in any part of the kingdom, with the exception of the metropolis." In the warrant granted three days previously under the privy seal, the players are empowered to exercise their art “ as well within the City of London and Liberties of the 71 I same ” as in other parts of the realm. In the sub- I sequent modification of this clause in the patent, we j trace undoubtedly the agency of the London Corpo- j ration. j The histrionic abilities of Shakespeare appear to i have been quite on a par with the ablest of his day, if we accept the fact of his name appearing first on the list in 1598. Clearly he was the master-spirit of the . company. Rowe informs us that he had heard that “the top of his performance was the Ghost in his own “Hamlet;” but Aubrey states that he “did act exceedingly well and Chettle, a contemporary of the poet, who had seen him perform, assures us that he was “ excellent in the quality he professed.” According to another tradition, he performed upon one occasion the part of Adam in his own “As You j Like It.” This tradition is found for the first time in Oldys’s manuscripts. The purport of Oldys’s state- ment is, that a brother of Shakespeare’s, who lived to a very advanced age — even until “after the restora- tion of Charles II.” — used to relate that he remem- bered having seen “his brother Will,” as he called him, personate the character of a very old man, in which “ he appeared so weak and drooping, and unable to walk, that he was forced to be supported and carried by another person to a table, at which he was seated among some company who were eating, and one of whom sang a song.” If there is any truth in this story, the brother in question was no doubt Gilbert, who was born in 1566, and of whose death we have no record. But as no mention is made of him in the poet’s will, dated 1616, it does not seem likely that he was alive even at that time. Capell gives another version of the tradition. It is to the effect that a very old man at Stratford, of weak intellect, used to say that he remembered having once seen Shakespeare “brought on the stage upon another man’s back,” — a statement which would identify the poet with Adam in Act ii. Scene 7, of “As You Like It.” We cannot attach any credit to stories of this description, seeing that he stood at the head of the 1598 list, the most conclusive proof that Shakespeare acquired a reputation of the highest class by his acting. His contemporaries Edward Alleyn and Richard-Bur- bage were accustomed to appear more frequently in the more elevated impersonations, while Kemp was the great comic favourite of theatrical audiences at the same epoch. Alleyn, who is still so well remembered . as the founder of Dulwich College, was the leading actor of the company of which Henslowe seems to have been the principal manager or capitalist, or the Lord Admiral’s Servants, as they were at one time called. Burbage was associated with Shakespeare as one of the servants of the Lord Chamberlain, and upon him devolved the singular distinction of having 72 Life of Shakespeare. been the first representative of the principal characters | in all the poet’s greatest dramas. From an “Elegy” on Burbage, which seems to have been written im- mediately after his death, we learn that he was the original Hamlet, Romeo, Prince Henry, and Henry V., Richard HI., Macbeth, Brutus, Coriolanus, Shy- lock, Lear, Pericles, and Othello. It was no doubt in reference to his personal appearance that the Queen, in the last act of “ Hamlet,” gives us this very un- poetical image of her son : — “ He’s fat and scant o’ breath.” Ben Jonson gives the names of the principal actors in his plays, but his lists never state what was the particular part sustained by any individual performer. We have stated that in 1598 Shakespeare represented one of the characters in Jonson’s “Every Man in his Humour,” and that in 1603 he played in the same writer’s “ Sejanus.” This is the last record we have of his appearance on the stage, and it is probable that he soon afterwards renounced the profession of an actor. Throughout the whole of this great productive era of the English drama, players were discountenanced by the gravest, and perhaps we might add, the most active and influential, portion of the nation ; but they found some compen.sation for this discredit in the countenance extended to them by the Court, and still more in the enthusiastic support and favour of the great mass of the people. Elizabeth and James I. were both patrons of the drama, and they both seem to have possessed sufficient discernment to recognize in Shakespeare the foremost dramatic writer of his age. Ben Jonson, in his verses prefixed to the Shakespeare Folio of 1623, bears a sort of general testimony to the delight which these two sovereigns took in the productions of the poet’s genius : — Sweet Swan of Avon, what a sight it were To see thee in our waters yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames That so did take Eliza and our James ! Elizabeth died on the 24th of March, 1603 ; and, before the close of that year, Henry Chettle, in his “ England’s Mourning Garment,” thus remonstrates with Shakespeare, whom he addresses under the name of Melicert, for neglecting to pay some poetical tribute to her memory ; — Nor doth the silver-tongued Melicert Drop from his honied Muse one sable tear, To mourn her death that graced his desert. And to his lays open’d her royal ear. Shepherd, remember our Elizabeth, And sing her rape, done by that Tarquin, Death. These lines, whatever may be their poetical merit, seem to show that Elizabeth evinced in some marked manner her appreciation of the great genius who gave so splendid an illustration to her reign. Queen Bess comes down to us very pleasantly through appreciation of Shakespeare and her other men of letters. Our own Victoria, too, will shine in future generations, through her private life and acts of grace, with a lustre not to be dimmed even by the political occurrences of her reign, grand as these have been. How akin the touch of nature makes subjects and monarchs ! What Briton will ever forget, how the German com- poser Mendelssohn, in a letter to his mother, speaks of the manner in which the Majesty of England honoured him. Mendelssohn had accepted Prince Albert’s invitation to try his organ, and the two were “ talking away ” in the music-room of the Palace when the Queen entered. The family would have to leave for Claremont in an hour, she said ; but scarcely were the words uttered before the housewife’s eye caught sight of a mass of papers blown by the wind about the floor, and the very housewifely exclamation, “ Goodness, what a litter ! ” put a stop to everything until the royal couple and the Composer had made the place tidy. Then the organ received attention, the Prince playing a Chorale “ clearly and correctly,” while the Queen sat by him and listened, and looked on. After- wards Mendelssohn took his turn. Prince Albert managing the stops “ so cleverly,^’ and being especially successful with a diminuendo which “quite enchanted ” the performer. More chat followed, the Queen asking Mendelssohn if he had written any new songs, and adding that she was very fond of those already pub- lished. “You should sing one to him,” suggested the Prince, and “after a little begging,” her Majesty fixed upon the well known “ Friihlingslied.” Prince Albert went to look for the copy, but returned empty-handed. The Friihlingslied was packed to go with other music to Claremont. Mendels.sohn, by this time quite at home, suggested unpacking, and that obvious though troublesome course was attempted. The servants, however, could not find the box, and the Queen herself searched only to discover that it had been sent on. In this emergency a consultation was held, and one of Gluck’s songs chosen as a pis-allcr. So off the whole party trooped to the Queen’s sitting-room “where there was a gigantic rocking-horse standing near the sofa and two big birdcages, and pictures on the walls, and splendidly bound books on the table, and music on the piano.” The Duchess of Kent came in, and “ while they were all talking,” hlendelssohn, dis- satisfied with the prospect of Gluck, went rummaging about to find, as luck would have it, his own first set of songs. The Chevalier was at once forgotten, and, a noi.sy parrot being first expelled, the Queen sang “Schbner und schoner schmiickt sich” so well, that the fastidious master only complains of her taking D as D sharp, and, when corrected, D sharp as D, a sequence of errors by no means one of royalty’s prerogatives. “ With the exception of this little mistake,” says 73 Shakespeare as an AzUhor and Actor in London. Mendelssohn, “ it was really charming.” But the song happened to be Fanny Mendelssohn’s, and the Composer had an obvious excuse for asking the royal performer to sing again. His request was granted conditionally upon receiving “plenty of help,” and Queen Victoria then gave “Lass dich nur,” with the exclamation, “Oh, iff had not been so frightened !” leaving us to infer that she could have done better in the absence of such a formidable auditor. Prince Albert next sang, and then Mendelssohn was entreated to “ play something ” before he went, the themes of the Prince’s Chorale being given as subjects for impro- visation. The Composer never did better in a branch of his art at which he was facile princcps, while with the tact of an old courtier, he went beyond his in- structions and wove the melody of the Queen’s in with the other two. Pressing invitations to “ call again ” accompanied the leave-taking, by which time Men- delssohn must have fancied himself in the cultured home of some art-loving private gentleman, rather than in the sanctum sanctorum of England’s Majesty ; but down below he saw “ beautiful carriages waiting, with their scarlet outriders,” and knew that nature’s royalty had simply hidden for a moment the royalty of station. James I. seems to have been a still more ardent lover of the drama than his immediate predecessor ; and of all the contemporary writers for the stage, our great poet, it is manifest, received the largest share of his admiration and patronage. On the 17th of May, 1603, only ten days after his first arrival in London, a warrant was issued in his name, by which the Lord Chamberlain’s company were taken into his own service, and under which they were thenceforward known as “ the King’s Players.” In this document the first member of the company mentioned is “ Law- rence Fletcher,” and then follow “ William Shake- speare, Richard Burbage,” and six others. There can be no doubt that Fletcher was already known to King James, and that it was to that cir- cumstance he owed this mark of royal favour. To- wards the close of the year 1 599, a company of English players had travelled to Edinburgh. Imme- diately after their arrival the king granted them his licence to perform within the burgh, and then, in opposition to the local ministers, supported them with considerable spirit in the exercise of their pro- fession. They appear to have remained in Scotland until near the close of the year 1601, for we find, from a register of the town council of Aberdeen, that they performed in that city in the month of October of that year. Fletcher was at their head, and it is clear that, after his return to London, he was a member of the company to which Shakespeare also belonged ; but we have no evidence to show that it was not then he joined them for the first time. It has been thought that Shakespeare himself may have been one of the band of travellers, and that he may thus have been enabled to describe Macbeth’s castle from actual observation. But the supposition is, in every way, one of a very improbable description. We do not know that he was at the time at all associated with P^letcher. He must, besides, have always made his profession as an actor subordinate to his labours as a dramatist ; and the lengthened absence of Fletcher and his companions from England is almost alone sufficient to show that he could not have formed one of their number. We have no means whatever of determining whether Shakespeare may not still have occasionally appeared as an actor in the year 1604. The only fact we know with respect to his connexion with the stage at this period is that in the preceding year he performed one of the parts in Ben Jonson’s “ Sejanus.” It is said that King James at one time wrote an “amicable letter” to our poet. In the advertisement to Lintot’s edition of Shakespeare’s Poem.s, published in the year 1710, it is stated that this letter, “though now lost, remained long in the hands of Sir William Davenant, as a credible witness now living can testify and Oldys alleges that the Duke of Buck- ingham (Sheffield) told Lintot that he had seen it in the possession of Davenant. In connexion with this subject an anecdote is pre- served of Shakespeare’s adroitness and courtly tact. He was personating on one occasion the character of a king in the presence of Queen Elizabeth, who, in walking across the stage, the honoured place in those days, as we have seen, for the higher portion of the audience, dropped her glove, as she passed close to the poet. No notice was taken by him of the inci- dent ; and the Queen, desirous of knowing whether this procedure was the result of mere inadvertence, or a determination to preserve the consistency of his part, moved again towards him, and again let her glove fall. Shakespeare stooped down to pick it up, saying, in the character of the monarch whom he was personating ; — And though now bent on this high embassy. Yet stoop we to take up our cousin’s glove. He then retired from the stage, and presented the glove to the Queen, who is reported to have been highly pleased. It is well known that Elizabeth took great delight in witnessing the poet’s dramatic pro- ductions ; and a story is told of her having been so charmed with the humour and drollery of the cha- racter of Falstaff in the First and Second Parts of “ Henry IV.,” that she commanded the author to represent him in one play more, and show him in love. To this circumstance, if true, the world would be indebted for “ The Merry Wives of Windsor ; ” L Life of Shakespeare. 74 but the internal evidence of the plays in question rather militates against the supposition. One com- pliment paid by Shakespeare must have been pecu- liarly acceptable to the Virgin Queen, and was certainly the most refined tribute of admiration which she ever received ; we allude to the celebrated passage in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream — Oberon. My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb’rest Since once I sat upon a promontory. And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin’s back. Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath. That the rude sea grew civil at her song ; And certain stars shot madly from their spheres. To hear the sea-maid’s music. Puck. I remember. Oberon. That very time I saw (but thou couldst not). Flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all arm’d ; a certain aim he took At a fair vestal throned by the west. And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow. As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts : But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon ; And the imperial votaress pass’d on In maiden meditation, fancy free. It is interesting to trace the growth of stage theatricals in Shakespeare’s day, the class of build- ings used for the purpose, their dimensions, and the manner of conducting the performances. Henslow and Alleyn’s contract for the building of the Fortune Playhouse in 1599 gives us a pretty accurate idea of its dimensions ; and that document insists on the Fortune being built, though somewhat larger, yet like the Globe. The contract for the Fortune stipulated for the erection of a building of four equal external sides of eighty feet, reduced by necessary arrange- ments to an internal ^area of fifty-five feet square. The length of the stage from side to side was to be forty-three feet, and in depth it was to extend over half the space of the internal area. Three tiers of galleries occupied three sides of the house, and there were four boxes, partitioned off from the lower gal- lery, and were frequented by company of rank, and to these the admission charge was higher. There were other divisions for company of an inferior order in the upper tiers. The number of theatres in London rapidly increased with the Blackfriars. There was one in Whitefriars, in or near Salisbury Court, and another called the Curtain in Shoreditch, the Red Bull at the upper end of St. John Street, the Cockpit or Phoenix in Drury Lane, and the Fortune was situated in Whitecross Street ; there was also an ancient theatre at Newington. There were other theatres of minor importance — the Swan, the Rose, and the Hope. Each was distinguished by a sign indicative of its name ; that on the Globe was a figure of Hercules supporting the Globe, and underwritten was the motto, “ Totus mundus agit histrionem.” The playhouses were never all open at the same time. some being summer, others winter theatres. The roofs of summer theatres extended only over the stage, passages, and galleries,^ the area of the pit being open to the weather ; the winter houses were completely covered in, and consequently their per- formances took place by candle-light. Plays were also publicly performed in the old courtyards of some of the inns in London, such as the Tabard in Southwark, the Belle Sauvage in Ludgate Hill, the Cross Keys in Gracechurch Street, and the Bull in Bishopsgate Street. The theatres of the day re- sembled very much these old hostelries ; three sides were occupied by balconies, which, properly divided, were appropriated to the reception of different classes of company ; the fourth side forming the stage, and the centre area the pit, which, unlike the same place in modern English theatres, was without benches. The pitites had therefore to stand it out, and hence are called groundlings by Shakespeare ; and by Ben Jonson, the tmderstanding gentlemen of the ground. No distinction existed in any of the theatres between the company frequenting the upper galleries and the pit ; these paid alike for admission to the several places they occupied, varying, of course, with the rank and reputation of the particular theatre. At the _ Blackfriars and the Globe they paid sixpence ; at the Fortune twopence ; and at some of the inferior houses as little as one penny. At Shakespeare’s Blackfriars as much as eighteenpence was charged for box seats ; and at the Globe one shilling ; and the price was afterwards advanced to half-a-crown and eighteen- pence. On nights of first production of a new piece the prices were doubled. Nine and ten pounds was an average night’s receipts, and double the amount was an extraordinary take. The Globe, though very much larger than Blackfriars, never equalled the latter in receipts, it being the aristocratic resort. It was customary to admit on the stage of the so-called private theatres the box spectators, where they were accommodated with stools, for which they paid an extra charge proportionate to the comparative eligi- bility of their situation. Here the fastidious critic was usually to be met with, the wit ambitious of dis- tinction, and the gallant studious of the display of his apparel or his person. Either seated, or else reclining on the rushes on the floor, they regaled themselves with the pipes and tobacco which their attendant pages furnished. The felicity of their situation excited cn\y, or their affectation and impertinence disgust, among the less polished part of the audience, who frequently vented their spleen in hissing, hooting, and throwing dirt at the intruders on the stage. It was the cue of these gallants to display their high breeding by an entire disregard of the proceedings of the ill-mannered rabble. Numerous methods were devised to while • I ■' • .• •'4'* • ■ 1 f I ‘i I ■ »' '. " V V -7* **■ ' 'i >* ■ ' * ’ '* , ,?t' ■■ * * “* " ' y • y, '• ^ v‘, ■, ■■^'. Vi ’V*. «**•• *. \ » *4 , •' *’ '' t i. »' *- ' * ..t '- V(v ’■' ■*■' <» c I *■ #•^ '♦>1 * / 1 L yu-.^ r . 'Jh '-i* ‘ - ‘•-nV ' 4 ^ ' ‘ ;n •• • >> •' ,x\*y ^■ u» T .s , •t i ; •,** V >.'A .. • •y* * ■^4 ' > V ^ « /N I The Stage of the Reel Bull Theatre, Clevkenwell. THE BEAR GARDEN, BANKSIDE. 75 Shakespeare as an Atithor and Actor hi London. away the tedious hour previous to the commence- ment of the performance ; books and cards, nuts and apples, bottled ale and pipes, were placed in requisi- tion by the varying tastes of the assemblage. A band, composed of trumpets, cornets, hautboys, lutes, recorders, viols, and organs, attended in the theatre, and by flourishes or soundings, at short intervals, announced the near approach of the commencement of the entertainment ; the third sounding was the signal for the entrance of “ the Prologue,” invariably dressed in a long black velvet cloak ; his humble demeanour, and supplicatory aspect and address, con- fessed the entire submission of the managers and actors to the public will. Only one dramatic piece was exhibited, but relief and variety were given to the entertainment by the feats of dancers, tumblers, and conjurors, and the introduction of music between the acts. To what further extent the orchestra was made use of is uncertain. Many old plays furnish instances of “ Enter music with a song,” without the preservation of the song itself. The theatrical critic played a most important part. In aid of his natural acumen he armed himself with a table-book, in which he maliciously noted down during the performance passages for criticism, not forgetting, at the same time, to preserve such jests and crumbs of wit as would bear retailing in coffee-houses and at the tables of the great, as appropriate oppor- tunities occurred for their display. It was in vogue among these witlings to affect disgust at the per- formance by significant signs and indecent indications of contempt. Fancy the young Shakespeare exposed to the contemptuous treatment of these wretched creatures, who commonly laughed aloud in the most serious scene of a tragedy, or, getting up, quitted the theatre in scorn. An Epilogue was a usual, but not an invariable appendage to a play. Sometimes, as in several of Shakespeare’s dramas, it was spoken by one of the performers, and adapted to the character he had personated. In representations at noblemen’s houses, a prayer for the patron of the company, and at the theatres for the Sovereign, closed the per- formance. The actors paid this ostentatious piece of flattery on their knees before the audience, whose edification was doubtless commensurate with the piety that dictated the action. ' The history of the growth of Shakespeare’s fame is very curious. “ He made,” as Johnson observes, " no collection of his works, nor desired to rescue those that had been already published from the depravations that obscured them, or to secure to the rest a better destiny, by giving them to the world in their genuine state.” A quiet life in his native town. repose in “ New Place,” the favourite house he pur- chased and improved, would seem to have been his chief ambition, though it is impossible not to ascribe to his wonderfully self-contained nature the con- sciousness of a future fame, to come after he had left the world. He had, in this respect, the highest attribute of genius. Free from vanity, he was content that the praise of his fellow-creatures should be deferred till he was removed beyond the reach of it. The great popularity of the poet was slow in coming. It has taken two centuries and more to measure and to gauge what was in his mind as revealed in his works. The first edition of them appeared in 1623, seven years after his death. Only three new ones followed in that century. The tide began to set in just a hundred years afterwards. Pope came with his edition, in six quarto volumes, 1725 ; another followed in ten volumes duodecimo. Editions thickened each decade, and by the end of the eighteenth century numbered fifty-eight. In the nine- teenth century 202 appeared. Within the last twenty years as many have issued from the English press as amount to almost the same number as the whole printed within one hundred years after the poet’s de- cease, and the future promises in this respect to be more prolific than ever. The variety and number of trans- lations, too, attest how wide is the popularity of the great British dramatist abroad. Germany takes the lead in the study and admiration of his writings. France comes next. The criticisms of the former abound, and our Teutonic brethren profess to have a clearer insight into the poet’s mind and meaning than we of the Anglo-Saxon race. It strikes us often that these commentators find in Shakespeare what Shakespeare himself never dreamt of — a circum- stance, however, quite satisfactory and easy of expla- nation, according to the principles of their transcen- dental philosophy. Some thirty complete German editions of his works have been published, besides many hundred editions of particular plays, and it is remarkable that the first German edition came out only in 1762. The first French edition appeared in 1776, and some twenty complete French editions have been printed. It is remarkable that the first trans- lation of one of Shakespeare’s plays into a foreign language appears to have been made as early as the year 1680, when “Romeo and Juliet” was translated into Spanish. It is not necessary to refer to the editions printed in America, they are numerous and ever multiply. “The Old Country ” is fast becoming denuded of the choice editions of Shakespeare consequent on the American and Australian demand for these. L 2 76 Life of Shakespeare. Queen Elizabeth, who visited Cambridge in 1564, witnessed the play of “ Aulularia Plauto,” on Sunday, August 6th, that piece being got up in the body of King’s College Church at her expense. For Sunday was at first the great day for theatrical entertainments ; a practice inherited from the old Miracle Plays, which they had now in some measure displaced. After spending five days in Cambridge, during which time she inspected all the colleges, and was entertained with orations, disputations, and various dramatic exhibitions, the Queen returned to London, sleeping, on the night of August 13th, at Hinchingbrook, near Huntingdon, the seat of Sir Henry Cromwell, whom she greatly esteemed, a gentleman called, for his liberality, “the Golden knight,” and to whom the future Lord Protector of England, Oliver Cromwell, as yet unborn, was grandson. In the year of Shakespeare’s birth many remark- able and some very great men lived. In the political world, we find the infamous Lord Robert Dudley, now about thirty-three years of age, almost omnipotent. Elizabeth, who but for the intercession of the good Lord Burleigh, would have married him herself when he caused his wife, Amy Robsart, to be murdered for the purpose, in 1560, had only a year ago proposed him as a husband to her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, and now creates him Earl of Leicester and grants him the castle and manor of Kenilworth, thirteen miles distant from the birthplace of Shake- speare. In the religious world, all was unsettled. The learned Matthew Parker, Archbishop of Canterbury, then in his sixtieth year, attempted to compel the clergy to conform to the Ritual, beginning with John Fox, the Martyrologist. But John Fox was too rigid a Puritan to conform ; besides, he had a pension for life from his former pupil, Thomas, the eldest son of the unfortunate Earl of Surrey, who had now become fourth Duke of Norfolk. — Thomas Sampson, D.D., one of the most learned and earnest of the Puritans, who had assisted to translate the Geneva Bible, and refused the bishopric of Norwich, when offered it on the accession of Elizabeth to the throne, was then in the forty-seventh year of his age, deprived of the Deanery of Christ-Church, Oxford, and thrown into prison, for refusing to wear the clerical habits. — David Whitehead, B.D., a learned Puritan divine, whom Archbishop Cranmer had recommended for the Arch- bishopric of Armagh, and whom Queen Mary’s perse- cution drove to Frankfort, — a man who, whilst many were scrambling for preferment, refused the see of Canterbury when offered it by Elizabeth — was now cited before the ecclesiastical commissioners, and suffered deprivation, although he was a great favourite with the Queen. “ I like thee the better, Whitehead,” said she, “because thou livest unmarried.” “In troth, madam,” rejoined he, “ I like thee the worse for the same cause.” — Miles Coverdale, D.D., then seventy- eight years of age, the principal translator of the Geneva Bible, and formerly Bishop of Exeter, but content with the humble benefice of St. Magnus at Bridgefoot, issued his Godly, Fruitful, and Comfort- able Letters of the tj'ue Saints and Holy Martyrs of this Realm, written in the time of their Affliction and cruel Imprisonment. It was printed, in a thick, small quarto volume, by the celebrated John Daye, “the printer of the Reformation.” — It was in that same year, John Knox, aged fifty-nine, married his second wife, Mary Steward, daughter of Lord Ochiltree. — The indefatigable, but gloomy and intolerant bigot, John Calvin — by whose fiendish malignity the philosopher Servetus was burnt in a slow fire, and poor Castalion hunted down — then approached his death, which occurred at Geneva, on the 27th of May : and he who himself had narrowly escaped the Inquisition in Italy, must go to be judged by his Maker with innocent blood on his head, and that, too, of a brother reformer, who had trusted him as a friend ! — Bernard Gilpin, the friend of the poor and the apostle of the north of England, then forty-seven years old, having providentially escaped Bonner’s burnings, was preaching and practising real Chris- tianity at his rectory of Houghton-le-Spring; refusing bishoprics and other dignities, that he might be enabled the more faithfully to discharge the duties of a true steward of the whole wealth, worldly and spiritual, with which it had pleased his Heavenly Father to entrust him ; and not only the inhabitants of the fourteen villages which were included within his parish, but the neglected in every part of the northern counties were made to share all his good things ; for good Bernard Gilpin did not think it honest of a Christian minister to spend his worldly wealth over worldly enjoyments, but instead thereof he kept four and twenty poor men’s sons in his house, whom he fed, and clothed, and lodged, and educated gratis ; he had free accommodation for man and beast on travel ; he fed and clothed the poor of his large parish ; healed the quarrels of his neighbours, and preached the Gospel, not as an hireling, but as one sent by God ; and his hospitality was such that a whole ox, twenty bushels of malt, and forty bushels of corn, with other provisions, were consumed at his manse every fortnight. PILGRIMAGES TO THE GREAT AUTHOR’S BIRTHPLACE. ♦ “ All our service In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business.” — Macbeth, Act i. Scene 6. |i ^t wiag|m]F all the descriptions of a Pilgrimage to in 1 Home of Shakespeare, that of the Rev. ’ Ward Beecher, the eminent American Divine, stands out by far the most promi- nent. What thorough Shakespearian familiar with Beecher’s stirring language does not eagerly accept it as the expression of his own heart and soul } Our feet never tread the beauteous lime avenue leading up to the northern gateway of the great shrine, our eyes never rest on the monumental effigy in the chancel, nor can we ever wander among the hallowed bye- paths and meadows so sacred to the name of “ Anne Hath a way — She Hath a way To make men say Sweet Anne Hathaway ! ” without Beecher’s loving descriptions giving expression to our thoughts and feelings, and making the home and country of Shakespeare the delight our imagination pictures them. He says : — The sun had not long set as I drove across the bridge of Avon, and stopped at the Red Horse Inn. As soon as I could put my things away, the first question asked was for Henley Street. It was near. In another moment I was there, looking, upon either side, for Shakespeare’s house — which was easily found with- out inquiry. I examined the kitchen where he used to frolic, and the chamber in which he was born, with an interest which surprised me. That I should be a hero- worshipper — a relic-monger — was a revelation indeed. Now guess where I am writing. You have the place in the picture before you.' It is the room where Shakespeare was' born ! Two hundred and eighty-six years ago, in this room, a mother clasped her new- born babe to her bosom ; perhaps on the very .spot where I am writing ! Do you see the table on the right side of the picture t It is there I am sitting. The room is represented as it was before it passed into the hands of the Shakespearian Society. There are now no curtains to the window which you see, and which looks out from the front of the house into the ' This letter was written upon pictorial note-paper containing views in and about Stratfprd. street ; nor are there any pictures ; but the room, with the exception of the two side-tables and a few old chairs, is bare, as it should be ; leaving you to the consciousness that you are surrounded only by that which the eyes of the child saw when he began to see at all. The room is about fifteen feet wide by eighteen in length. The height is not great. I can easily touch the ceiling with my hand. An uneven floor of broad oaken plank rudely nailed, untouched, probably, in his day, by mat or carpet. The beams in this room, as also throughout the house, are coarsely shapen, and project beyond the plaster. The original building, owned by Shakespeare’s father, has been so changed in its exterior, that but for the preservation of a view taken in 1769, we should have lost all idea of it. It was, for that day, an excellent dwelling- house for a substantial citizen, such as his father is known to have been. It was afterwards divided into three tenements, the centre one remaining in possession of Shakespeare’s kindred, who resided there until 1646. And it is this portion that is set apart for exhibi- tion ; — the sections on either side of it having been intolerably “improved” with a new brick front, by the enterprising landlord of the “Swan and Maiden- head Inn,” about 1820! Its exterior has grown rude since Shakespeare’s time, for the old print repre- sents a front not unpleasing to the eye, with a gable and a bay window beneath, two dormer windows, and three-light latticed windows upon the ground story. The orchard and garden which were in its rear when purchased by Shakespeare’s father, are gone, and their place is occupied by dwellings and stables. There is not a spot for even a shrub to grow in ! I shall spend a portion of three days at Stratford- on-Avon ; and I have made a treaty with the worthy woman who keeps the premises, by which I can have free use of the room where I now write. Never have I had such a three days’ experience ! Kenilworth, Warwick, and Stratford-on-Avon, all in one day ! Then I am to spend a Sabbath here ! I can neither eat nor sleep for excitement. If my journey shall all prove like this, it will be a severer taxation to recruit than to stay at home and labour. 78 Life of Shakespeare. This room, its walls, the ceiling, the chimney front and sides, the glass of the window, are every inch covered and crossed and re-crossed with the names of those who have visited this spot. I notice names of distinction noble and common, of all nations, mingled with thousands of others known only to the inscribers. In some portions of the room the signatures overlay each other two or three deep. I felt no desire to add my name, and must be content to die without having written anything on the walls of the room where Shakespeare was born. I must confess, however, to a little vanity — if vanity it be. A book is open for names and contributions to enable the Committee for the Preservation of Shakespeare’s House to complete the payment of the purchase- money. I did feel a quiet satisfaction to know that I had helped to purchase and preserve this place. Strange gift of genius, that now, after nearly three hundred years, makes one proud to contribute a mite to perpetuate in its integrity the very room where the noble babe was born ! But I am exhausted and must sleep, if sleep I can. To-morrow will be my first Sabbath in England — and that Sunday at Stratford-on-Avon ! My dear : If you have read, or will read, my letter to , you will see what a wonderful day was Saturday. Coventry, famous for the legend of Godiva, of which Tennyson has a pretty version ; the ruins of Kenilworth Castle, the stately Castle of Warwick and its park, and Stratford-on-Avon, all in one day ! Do you wonder that my brain was hot and my sleep fitful that night } I tossed from side to side, and dreamed dreams. It was long after mid- night before I began to rest, free from dreams ; but the sleep was thin, and I broke through it into waking, every half-hour. It was broad daylight when I arose ; the sun shone out in spots ; masses of soft, fleecy clouds rolled about in the heaven, making the day even finer than if it had been all blue. I purposed attending the village church, in the morning, where Shakespeare was buried ; in the afternoon at Shottery, a mile across the fields, where the cottage in which lived Anne Hathaway, his wife, still stands ; and in the evening, at the church of the Holy Cross, adjoining the Grammar School ; in which, as the school about that time was open, and for a period kept, it is probable that Shakespeare studied. Never, in all the labours of a life not wont to be idle upon the Sabbath, have I known such excite- ment or such exhaustion. The scenes of Saturday had fired me ; every visit to various points in Stratford- on-Avon added to the inspiration, until, as I sallied forth to church, I seemed not to have a body. I could hardly feel my feet striking against the ground ; it was as if I were numb. But my soul was clear, penetrating, and exquisitely .susceptible. You may suppose that everything would so breathe of the matchless poet, that I should be insensible to religious influences. But I was at a stage beyond that. The first effect, last night, of being here, was to bring up suggestions of Shakespeare from every- thing. I said to myself, “ This is the street he lived in, this the door he passed through, here he leaned, he wandered on these banks, he looked on those slopes and rounded hills.” But I had become full of these suggestions, and acting as a stimulus, they had wrought such an extatic state, that my soul became exquisitely alive to every influence, whether of things seen, or heard, or thought of. The children going to church, how beautiful they appeared ! How good it seemed to walk among so many decorous people to the house of God. How full of music the trees were; music, not only of birds, but of winds waving the leaves ; and the bells, as they were ringing, rolled through the air a deep diapason to all other sounds. As I approached the church, I perceived that we were to pass through the churchyard for some little distance ; and an avenue of lime-trees meeting over- head formed a beautiful way, through which my soul exulted to go up to the house of God. The interior was stately and beautiful — it was to me, and I am not describing anything to you as it was, but am de- scribing myself while in the presence of scenes with which through books you are familiar. As I sat down in a pew close by the reading-desk and pulpit, I looked along to the chancel, which stretched some fifty or sixty feet back of the pulpit and desk, and saw, upon the wall, the well-known bust of Shakespeare ; and I knew that beneath the pavement under that his dust reposed. In a few minutes, a little fat man, with a red collar and red cuffs, advanced from a side-room behind the pulpit and led the way for the rector, a man of about fifty years — bald, except on the sides of his head, which were covered with white hair. I had been anxious lest some Cowper’s ministerial fop should officiate, and the sight of this aged man was good. The form of his face and head indicated firmness, but his features were suffused with an expression of benevolence. He ascended the reading-desk, and the services began. You know my mother was, until her marriagh, in the communion of the Episcopal Church. This thought hardly left me while I sat, grateful for the privilege of worshipping God through a service that had expressed so often her devotions. I cannot tell you how much I was affected. I had never had such a trance of worship, and I shall never have such another view until I gain the Gate. I am so ignorant of the Church service that I cannot call the various parts by their right names ; but the 79 Pilgrhnages to the Great Atithors Birthplace. portions which most affected me were the prayers and responses which the choir sang. I had never heard any part of a supplication — a direct prayer, chanted by a choir ; and it seemed as though I heard not with my ear but with my soul. I was dissolved ; my whole being seemed to me like an incense wafted gratefully toward God. The Divine presence rose before me in wondrous majesty, but of ineffable gentleness and good- ness, and I could not stay away from more familiar approach, but seemed irresistibly, yet gently, drawn toward God. My soul, then thou didst magnify the Lord, and rejoice in the God of thy salvation ! And then came to my mind the many exultations of the Psalms of David, and never before were the expres- sions and figures so noble and so necessary to express what I felt. I had risen, it seemed to me, so high as to be where David was when his soul conceived the things which he wrote. Throughout the service, and it was an hour and a quarter long, whenever an “ Amen ” occurred, it was given by the choir, accom- panied by the organ and the congregation. Oh, that swell and solemn cadence rings in my ear yet! Not once, not a single time did it occur in that service, from beginning to end, without bringing tears from my eyes. I stood like a shrub in a spring morning — every leaf covered with dew, and every breeze shook down some drops. I trembled so much at times, that I was obliged to sit down. Oh, when in the prayers breathed forth in strains of .sweet, simple, so-lemn music, the love of Christ was recognized, how I longed then to give utterance to what that love seemed to me ! There was a moment in which the heavens seemed opened to me, and I saw the glory of God ! All the earth seemed to me a storehouse of images, made to set forth the Redeemer, and I could scarcely be still from crying out. I never knew, I never dreamed before, of what heart there was in that word Amen. Every time it swelled forth and died away solemnly, not my lips, not my mind, but my whole being said — Saviour, so let it be. The sermon was preparatory to the Communion, which I then first learned was to be celebrated. It was plain and good ; and although the rector had done many things in a way that led me to suppose that he sympathized with overmuch ceremony, yet in his sermon he seemed evangelical, and gave a right view of the Lord’s Supper. For the first time in my life I went forward to commune in an Episcopal Church. Without any intent of my own, but because from my seat it was nearest, I knelt down at the altar with the dust of Shakespeare beneath my feet. I thought of it, as I thought of ten thousand things, without the least disturbance of devotion. It seemed as if I stood upon a place so high, that, like one looking over a wide valley, all objects conspired to make but one view. I thought of the general assembly and church of the firstborn, of my mother and brother and children in heaven, of my living family on earth, of you, of the whole church entrusted to my hands ; — they afar off — I upon the banks of the Avon. In the afternoon I walked over to Shottery, to attend worship there, but found that I had been misinformed, and that there was no church or service there. I soon found the cottage where Shakespeare’s wife, Anne Hathaway, was born, but stayed only for a little time, meaning to visit it more at my leisure on Monday. I hastened back, hoping to reach the village church in Stratford in season for part of the service, but arrived just in time to meet the congre- gation coming out. I turned aside to the churchyard which surrounds the church on every side. As I stood behind the church on the brink of the Avon, which is here walled up to the height of some eight feet, looking now at the broad green meadows beyond, and now at a clump of “ forget-me-nots ” growing wild down at the water’s edge, and wonder- ing how I should get them to carry back to my friends, I was accosted by a venerable old man, whose name I found afterwards to be T . He w’as not indisposed to talk, and I learned that he was eighty-one years of age ; had lost his father in America during our revolutionary war, where he had been a soldier ; he remembered the sad tidings, being then eleven years old ; he had resided at Stratford for thirty years ; he was a turner and carver by trade ; he had lately buried his wife, and had come after service to visit her grave. We walked together along the banks of the Avon, he repeating some familiar lines of poetry. He gave me various local informa- tion of interest. Among other things, that the vicar was but recently come among them ; that he seemed to him very “ whimsical, for,” said he, “ he has got a new brass thing to hold his Bible, down in front of the reading-desk ; and he stands sometimes with his back to the people when reading parts of the service, and has a good many scholarly tricks about him, as it seems to me.” I forbore making any remarks, not wishing to disturb the associations of the morning. We crossed the stream by a bridge, walked up through the broad, smooth, turfy meadows upon the other side, and on reaching my inn, I pressed him to come in and take tea with me. I did so, in part from interest in him, and in i^art because he had mentioned, when I apologized for using his time in so long a walk, that his only remaining daughter was gone out to tea, and he did not care to go home and be alone. So we took tea together ; after which he proposed waiting upon me to the Church of the Holy Cross, where evening services were then commencing. The interior of the church was plain ; and its age and its connexion with Shakespeare constituted its only inte- 8o Life of Shakespeare. rest to me. I feel greatly obliged to the venerable old man, whose heart seemed guileless and whose mind was simple. This only acquaintance that I have made in Stratford takes nothing away from the romantic interest of my experience here. Monday, August 5, 1850. — As I was sitting this morning after breakfast writing busily, my venerable friend T came in to bid me good-morning, and to bring me a relic, a piece of the mulberry-tree which stood in Shakespeare’s garden, but which was cut down by its after owner, he being much annoyed by relic-hunters. He finally destroyed the house itself The old man also gave me a snuff-box which had been made years and years ago, either from the wood of this same tree, or from a tree sprung from the original. He avers that it was from the original tree ; that he obtained it from the former turner, as a model by which to turn boxes, and that he was assured that it was of the real orthodox, primitive mulberry-tree ! I do not doubt it. I will not doubt. What is the use of destroying an innocent belief so full of pleasure ? If it is not a genuine relic, my faith shall make it so. One or Two Hours Later. — Alas ! I’ve been out, and among other inquiries, have asked after my old friend T . I find him to be living in the poorhouse ! At first, I confess to a little shame at intimacy with a pauper ; but in a moment I felt twice as much ashamed that for a moment I had felt the slightest repugnance toward the old man on this account. I rather believe his story of the tree and the box to be true ; at any rate, I have a mulberry snuff-box which I procured in Stratford-on-Avon ! Among the many things which I determined to see and hear in England were the classic birds, and espe- cially the thrush, the nightingale, and the lark ; after these I desired to see cuckoos, starlings, and rooks. While in Birmingham, going about one of the manu- factories, I was inquiring where I might see some of the first-named. The young man who escorted me pointed across the way to a cage hanging from a second-story window, and said, “There’s a lark!’’ Sure enough, in a little cage and standing upon a handful of green grass, stood the little fellow, appa- rently with russet-brown wings and lighter coloured breast, ash colour, singing away to his own great comfort and mine. The song reminded me, in many of its notes, of the canary bird. In my boyhood, I had innocently supposed that the lark of which I read when first beginning to read in English books, was our meadow-lark ; and I often watched in vain to see them rise singing into the air! As for singing just beneath “ heaven’s gate ” or near the sun, after diligent observation, with great simplicity, I set that down for a pure fancy of the poets. But I had before this learnt that the English skylark was not our meadow-lark. A bird in a cage is not half a bird ; and I determined to hear a lark at Stratford-on-Avon, if one could be scared up. And so, early this morning, I awoke, according to a predetermination, and sallied out through the fields to a beautiful range of grounds called “ Welcombe.” I watched for birds and saw birds, but no larks. The reapers were already in the wheat-fields, and brought to mind the fable of the lark who had reared her young there. Ear over, toward the Avon, I could see black specks of crows walking about, and picking up 'a morsel here and there in the grass. I listened to one very sweet song from a tree near a farm-house, but it was unfamiliar to my ear ; and no one was near from whom I might inquire. Besides, the plain labouring people know little about ornithology, and would have told me that “ it is some sort of a singing bird,” as if / thought it were a goose ; and so I said to myself. I’ve had my labour for my pains ! Well, I will enjoy the clouds and the ribbon strips of blue that interlace them. I must revoke my judgment of the English trees ; for as I stood looking over upon the masses of foliage, and the single trees dotted in here and there, I could see every shade of green, and all of them most beautiful, and as refreshing to me as old friends. After stand- ing awhile to take a last view of Stratford-on-Avon, from this high ground, and the beautiful slopes around it, and of the meadows of the Avon, I began to walk homeward, when I heard such an outbreak behind me, as wheeled me about quick enough ; there he flew, singing as he rose, and rising gradually, not directly up, but with gentle slope — there was the free singing lark, not half so happy to sing as I was to hear ! In a moment more he had reached the summit of his ambition, and suddenly fell back to the grass again. And now, if you laugh at my enthusiasm, I will pity you for the want of it. I have heard one poet’s lark, if I never hear another, and am much happier for it. If you wait a moment or two till I can breakfast, you shall have the benefit of a stroll over to Shottery — a real old English village. I walked over there yesterday afternoon to church, as I told you, and so can show you the way without inquiring it three times, as I did then. Emerging from the village, we take this level road, lined on either side with hedges and trees ; trees not with naked stems, but ruffled from the hedge to their limbs with short side brush, which gives them a very beautiful appearance. The white clover-turf under foot is soft as velvet ; men are reap- ing in the fields, or going past us with their sickles. We have walked about a mile, and here is a lane turning to the left, and a guide-board pointing to “ Shottery.” I see the village. A moment’s walk brings us to a very neat little brick, gothic cottage, quite pretty in style, and painted cream colour ; it is ESPEj^R Pilgrimages to the Great A uthors Birthplace. covered with roses and fragrant flowering vines, which make the air delicious. By the gate is a Champney rose — the largest I ever saw — its shoots reaching, I should think, more than twelve feet, and terminated with clusters of buds and open roses, each cluster having from fifty to a hundred buds. Yesterday afternoon, as I passed this same cottage, I stopped to admire this rose, and to feed upon the delicious perfume which exhaled from the grounds. A lady, apparently about forty-five, and two young women about eighteen and twenty years of age respectively, seeing a stranger, approached the gate. I bowed and asked, — “ Is this a Champney rose ? ” “ It is a Noisette, sir ! ” “ I thought so; a Champney of the Noisette family! Will you tell me what flower it is that fills the air with such odour ? ” “ I don’t know ; it must be something in the garden.” “ Will you be kind enough to tell me the way to Anne Hathaway’s cottage } ” “Take the first lane to the left,” said the eldest young woman, pointing to the right. “The lane on the right, you mean.” “ Oh yes, on the right, but I do not know where the cottage is exactly 1 ” and yet it lay hardly two good stone-casts from where they stood. You can see its smoke from the windows. Did they not know, or were they ashamed to seem too familiar with a stranger 1 But William Shakespeare, eighteen years old as he was, had no need of asking his way, as he came by here of a Sabbath evening ! What were the thoughts of such a mind drawing near to the place which now peeps out from the trees across the field on the right ? What were the feelings of a soul which created such forms of love in after-days } I look upon the clouds every moment changing forms, upon the hedges or trees, along which, or such like, Shakespeare wandered with his sweet Anne, and marvel what were the imaginations, the strifes of heart, the gushes of tenderne.s.s, the sanguine hopes and fore-paintings of this young poet’s soul. For, even so early, he had begun to give form to that which God created in him. One cannot help thinking of Olivia, Juliet, Desdemona, Beatrice, Ophelia, Imogen, Isabella, Miranda ; and wondering whether any of his first dreams were after- ward borrowed to form these. It is not possible but that strokes of his pencil, in these and other women of Shakespeare, reproduced some features of his own experience. Well, I imagine that Anne was a little below the medium height, delicately formed and .shaped, but not slender, with a clear, smooth forehead, not high, but wide and evenly filled out ; an eye that chose to look down mostly, but filled with sweet con- fusion every time she looked up, and that was used more than her tongue ; a face that smiled oftencr 8l than it laughed, but so smiled that one saw a world of brightness within, as of a lamp hidden behind an alabaster shade ; a carriage that was deliberate but graceful and elastic. This is Anne Hathaway. Whether it was Shakespeare’s, I find nothing in this cottage and these trees and verdant hedges to tell me. The birds are singing something about it — descendants doubtless of the very birds that the lovers heard, strolling together ; but I doubt their traditionary lore. I did not care to go in. There are two or three tene- ments in the long cottage as it now stands ; but the middle one is that to which pilgrims from all the world do come ; and though it was but a common yeoman’s home, and his daughter has left not a single record of herself, she and her home are immortal, because hither came the lad Shakespeare, and she became his wife. I leaned upon this hedge yesterday afternoon, it being the Sabbath, and looked long at the place, and with more feelings than thoughts, or rather with thoughts that dissolved at once into feel- ings. Here are the rudest cottages ; scenery, beautiful indeed, but not more so than thousands of other places ; but men of all nations and of every condition, the mingled multitude of refined men are thronging hither, and dwell on every spot with enthusiasm un- feigned. Whatever Shakespeare saw, we long to see ; what he thought of, we wish to think of ; where he walked, thither we turn our steps. The Avon, the church, the meadows lying over beyond both ; the street and the room where he was born ; — all have a soul imbreathed upon them, all of them are sacred to us, and we pass as in a dream amid these things. The sun, the clouds, the trees, the birds, the morning and evening, moonlight or twilight or darkness, none of them here have a nature of their own ; all of them are to us but memorials or suggestions of Shakespeare. God gave to man this power to breathe himself upon the world ; and God gave us that nature by which we feel the inspiration. Is this divine arrangement ex- hausted in man’s earthly history ? Are we not to see and to know a sublime development of it when we come to a knowledge of God himself, face to face ? Then, not a hamlet alone, a few cottages, a stream or spire will be suggestive ; but throughout the universe every creature and every object will breathe of God. Not of His genius, as Stratford-on-Avon speaks of Shakespeare; but of every trait of character, every shade of feeling, every attribute of power ; of good- ness, love, mercy and gentleness, magnanimity, ex- quisite purity, taste, imagination, truth, and justice. May we know this revelation, walk amid those scenes of glory, and know the rapture of feeling God effulge upon us from everything which His heart has con- ceived, or His hand fashioned ! But chiefly may we see that noontide glory when we shall gaze unabashed upon His unobstructed face. M 82 Life of Shakespeare. In reproducing our friend Washington Irving’s description of his resting at the Shrine, we cannot but record how frequently from his own lips have we had fervent allusions to his sojourn at Stratford. Having had the gratification of his communion and society during several of the later years of his life (he was sponsor to one of our children who passed from the world in childhood), our opportunities of learning his intense appreciation of his Warwickshire rambles were numerous. To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of something like independence and territorial consequence, when, after a weary day’s travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may ; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The armchair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlour, of some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day ; and he who has ad- vanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. “ Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?” thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a com- placent look about the little parlour of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chamber- maid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being de- posed, and putting the Stratford Guide Book under my arm, as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakespeare, the jubilee, and David Garrick. The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we sometimes have in early spring; for it was about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his father’s craft of wool-combing. It is a small mean-looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant ; and present a simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which Shakspeare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh ; the sword also with which he played Hamlet ; and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb! There was an ample supply also of Shakespeare’s mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross, of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. The most favourite object of curiosity, however, is Shakespeare’s chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father’s shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listen- ing to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one that visits the house to sit : whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, I merely mention the fact ; and mine hostess privately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the history of this extra- traordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old chimney corner. I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing to be deceived, where the deceit is plea- sant, and costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise all tra- Vw-' ! \ v> I'. \ I i 4 .-it 1 S' » * '■ • ’ * ^ A * - • . I.V t _7 i ■ I • «' « . . ^ - - • » 83 Pilgrimages to the Great Author s Birthplace. vellers who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to us, whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality ^ There is nothing like resolute good- humoured credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, unluckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in her consanguinity at defiance. From the birth-place of Shakespeare a few paces brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and re- tired : the river runs murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass ; the grey tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirp- ing ; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty grey spire. In the course of my rambles I met with the grey- headed sexton, and accompanied him home to get the key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its bordering mea- dows ; and was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlour, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glit- tered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and Prayer Book, and the drawer contained the family library, composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the room, with a bright warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man’s horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. The fire-place, as usual, was wide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the old man’s grand- daughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion from childhood. They had played together in infancy ; they had worked together in manhood ; they were now tottering about and gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a short time they will probably be buried together in the neighbouring churchyard. It is not often that we see two streams of existence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet “ bosom scenes” of life that they are to be met with. I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new to impart. The long interval during which Shakespeare’s writings lay in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over his history ; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely anything remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford Jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, according to the sexton, was “ a short punch man, very lively and bustling.” John Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakespeare’s mulberry-tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary conception. I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable and inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry-tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poetls tomb ; the latter having comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into different channels even at the fountain head. We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly orna- mented, with carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture and embel- lishments superior to those of most country churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up a low per- petual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on M 2 84 Life of Shakespeare. it, said to have been written by himself, and which have in them something extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds : — Good friend, for Jesus’ sake, forbeare To dig the dust enclosed here. Blessed be he that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones. Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of his decease — fifty-three years ; an untimely death for the world : for what fruit might not have been expected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favour. The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contem- plated. A few years since also, as some labourers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collec- tor of relics, should be tempted to commit depreda- tions, the old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished and the aper- ture closed again. He told me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones, nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakespeare. Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favourite daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is a full length effigy of his old friend, John Combe, of usurious memory, on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that is not connected with Shake- speare. His idea pervades the place ; the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in per- fect confidence ; other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, there was something intense and thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakespeare were moul- dering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; and as I passed through the churchyard I plucked a branch from one of the yew-trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim’s devotion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys, at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakespeare, in company with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this hare- brained exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper’s lodge, where he remained all night in doleful captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot. This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at War- wick to put the severity of the law in force against the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakespeare did not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the'Avon and his paternal trade, wandered away to London, became a hanger-on to the theatres, then an actor, and, finally, wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool- comber, and the world gained an immortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and re- venged himself in his writings, but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original of Justice Shallow, and the satire is slily fixed upon him by the justice’s armorial bear- ings, which, like those of the knight, had white luces in the quarterings. Various attempts have been made by his bio- graphers to soften and explain away this early trans- gression of the poet ; but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situation and turn of mind. Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in everything eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gam- bling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakespeare’s mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, DEAUCHAMP..CHAPEL ,, WARWiCK - 85 Pilgrimages to the Great Author s Birthplace. like an unbroken colt, about the neighbourhood of Stratford, he was to be found in the company of all kinds of odd, anomalous characters ; that he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old men shake their heads, and predict that they will one day come to the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy’s park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed imagination, as something delightfully ad- venturous. The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly interesting, from being connected with this whimsical but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house stood at little more than three miles’ distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from which Shakespeare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. The country was yet naked and leafless ; but Eng- lish scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the senses, to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade, and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and burst- ing buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold snowdrop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before the cot- tages. The bleating of the new-dropped lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges ; the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare’s ex- quisite little song in “ Cymbeline — Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven’s gate sings. And Phoebus ’gins arise. His steeds to water at those springs. On chaliced flowers that lies. And winking mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes ; With everything, that pretty bin. My lady sweet, arise ! Cymbeline, Act ii. Scene 3. Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground : everything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular amusement in winter evenings “ to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars.” * My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and windings through a wide and fertile valley ; sometimes glittering from among willows which fringed its borders, sometimes disappearing among groves or beneath green banks, and sometimes- rambling out into full view, and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow-land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the Avon. After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into a footpath which led along the borders of fields and under hedgerows to a private gate of the park. There was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian, there being a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one has a kind of property — at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and,, what is more, to the better lot of his neighbour, thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying for it and keeping it in order. I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of cen- turies. The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree-tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue, and a vagrant deer, stalking like a shadow across the opening. There is something about these stately old avenues 1 Scot, in his “ Discoverie of Witchcraft,” enumerates a host of these fire-side fancies. “And they have so fraid us with bull- l^eggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-goodfellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier-drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hob- goblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes.’’ 86 Life of Shakesf) ear e. that has the effect of Gothic achitecture, not merely from the pretended similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the long-settled dignity and proudly concentrated independence of an ancient family ; and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that “ money could do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven ! there was no such thing as sud- denly building up an avenue of oaks.” It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shakespeare’s com- mentators have supposed he derived his noble forest meditations of Jacques, and the enchanting woodland pictures in “ As You Like It.” It is in lonely wander- ings through such scenes that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes in- tensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and rapture ; vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon it, and we revel in a mute and almost incom- municable luxury of thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees before me, which threw their broad shades over the grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet’s fancy may have sallied forth into that little song which breathes the very soul of a rural volup- tuary ; — Under the greenwood tree. Who loves to lie with me. And tune his merry throat. Unto the sweet bird’s note, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy. But winter and rough weather. As You Like It, Act ii. Scene 5. I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth’s day, having been built in the first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from the park into a kind of court- yard in front of the house, ornamented with a grass- plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbican, being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers, though evidently for mere ornament instead of defence. The front of the house is completely in the old style ; with stone- shafted casements, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at the foot of a gently sloping bank, which sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon its borders, and swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old mansion, I called to mind Falstaff’s encomium on Justice Shallow’s abode, and the affected indifference and real vanity of the latter : — Falstaff. You have here a goodly dwelling and a rich. Shallow. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John — marry, good air. Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in the days of Shakespeare it had now an air of stillness and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the courtyard was locked ; there was no show of servants bustling about the place ; the deer gazed quietly at me 'as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcase of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhor- rence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial power which was so strenuously mani- fested in the case of the bard. After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the mansion. I was cour- teously received by a worthy old housekeeper who, with the civility and communicativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living. There is a fine old oaken staircase ; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must have had in the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty, and at one end is a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide, hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying-place of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was de- lighted to observe in the quarterings the three white hues, by which the character of Sir Thomas was first 87 Pilgrimages to the Great A uthors Birthplace. identified with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the “ Merry Wives of Windsor,” where the Justice is in a rage with Falstafif for having ‘‘'beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge.” The poet had no doubt the offences of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shallow to be a cari- cature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. Near the window hung a portrait, by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of Charles the Second. The old housekeeper shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the family estate, among which was that part of the park where Shakespeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. The picture which most attracted my attention was a great painting over the fireplace, containing like- nesses of the Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the latter part of Shakespeare’s lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that it was his son, the only likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighbouring hamlet of Charlecot. The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet, white shoes with roses in them, and has a peaked yellow, or as Master Slender would say, “a cane-coloured beard.” His lady is seated on the opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have a most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the foregrouna, and one of the children holds a bow — all intimating the knight’s skill in hunting, hawking, and archery, so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days.* I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with * Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, “ His housekeeping is seen much in the different fami- lies of dogs and serving-men attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throat is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses.” And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, “ He kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk-perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels.” the stately elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of former days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural domains and in which it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when the recreant Shakespeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard’s examination on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded by his bodyguard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men with their badges ; while the luckless culprit was brought in, forlorn and chapfallen, in the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and -followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half-opened doors ; while from the gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner with that pity “ that dwells in womanhood.” Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a country squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the dictator to the human mind, and was to confer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and harbour where the justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence “ to a last year’s pippen of his own grafting, with a dish of carraways ; ” but I had already spent so much of the day in my ramblings, that I was obliged to give up any further investiga- tions. When about to take my leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I would take some refreshment : an instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we castle- hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shake- speare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing instances to Falstaff. By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night I will not excuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be excused. . . . Some pigeons, Davy ; a couple of short-legged hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook. I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually living among them. Everything brought them as it were before my eyes ; and as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost 88 Life of Shakespeare. expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his favourite ditty — ’Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, And welcome merry shrove-tide ! On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the very face of nature ; to give to things and places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this “working- day world ” into a perfect fairy-land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion. I had sur- veyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings ; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power ; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak ; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adven- turing through the woodlands ; and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honours and bless- ings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions ; who has spread exqui- site and unbought pleasures in my chequered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life ! As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honour could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude } What would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend i^ile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude about the grave may be but the off- spring of an over-wrought sensibility ; but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices ; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favour, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honour among his kindred and his early friends. And when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the mother’s arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it covered with renown ; that his name should become the boast and glory of his native place ; that his ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! Mrs. H. B. Stowe’s Pilgrimage to Shakespeare’s House and Tomb is thus described : — 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 at the back of it. From thence you go up a rude flight of stairs to a low room, with rough-plastered walls, where the poet was born. The prints of this room which are generally'sold allow themselves considerable poetic licence, repre- senting 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 seems impos- sible 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 en- deavoured to make their own names conspicuous in the crowd. But little is known of the personal history of Mary, Shakespeare’s mother; and one sometimes wonders where, in that coarse age when queen 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 df 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. 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 89 Pilgrimages to the Great Authors Birthplace. and more practically efficient jostle aside and under- rate for their want of interest in the noisy chit-chat 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 repro- ducing, under fictitious and supposititious circum- stances, the patience, magnanimity, and enduring love which had shone upon him in the household i words and ways of his mother. I seem, too, to have a kind of perception of Shake- speare’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 speechmaking 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 seem to perceive as if a sort of vision had radiated from the old wall ; 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 everything 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 colouring in many parts of Shakespeare, imagery that could only have come from such habits of quiet household con- templation. 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 wolfbehowls 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. Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act v. Scene 2. By-the-bye, one cannot but be struck with the resemblance, in the spirit and colouring of these lines, to those very similar ones in “ II 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 colouring those of Shakespeare, 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 colouring, 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 Shakespeare 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 Shakespeare ; 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 Shakespeare, to have let his mind run freely, as a brook warbles over many-coloured pebbles ; whereas in his great poem he built after models. Had he known as little Latin and Greek as Shakespeare, 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. N 90 Life of Shakespeare. 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 copy- ing ; but far greater were it to invent an entirely new style of architecture, as different as the Gothic from the Grecian. This merit was Shakespeare’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 production. 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 of 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. Midsummer Night's Drea^n, Act iii. Scene i. The church has been carefully restored inside, so that it is now in excellent preservation, and Shake- speare 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 lesus SAKE forbare To diOG T-E Dust EncloAsed HERe Blesebe T-E Man 3^ spares T-Es Stones T I And curst be He y moves my Bones It seems that this 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 neighbouring grave, a careless sexton broke into the side of Shake- speare’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 Shakespeare 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 minutis 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 do 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 con- sistent 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 favour 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 recol- lection of his personal appearance. After the manner of those times it was originally painted, the hair and beard of an auburn colour, 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 like- ness. 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 Shakespeare in the chancel is buried his favourite daughter, “ good Mistress Hall.” His wife, Anne Hathaway, is buried near by, under the same pavement. 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 de- velopment. 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 child- less, the family became extinct. Shakespeare, 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. It seemed to me singular that of such a man there should not remain one accredicted 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 Bm®-# »s| ■IHs^S^ l^-l ' itS#S'<^B5ll«'^ 91 Pilgrimages to the Great Authors Birthplace. 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 memo- randa 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 gaieties 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 I 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 a 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, — indi- cates 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. The last will of Shakspeare, written by his own hand, and still preserved, shows several things of the man. The introduction is as follows : — “ In the name of God. Amen. I, William Shake- speare, at Stratford-upon-Avon, in the county of Warwick, gentleman, in perfect health and memory * The following are the lines inscribed beneath the bust : — “Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem, Terra tegit, populus mcerct, Olympus habet. Stay, passenger, why goest thou by so fast ? Read, if thou canst, whom envious death hath plast Within this monument, Shakspeare, with whome Quick Nature dide ; whose name doth deck this tombe Far more than cost ; sith all. that he hath writt Leaves living art but page to serve his wit. Obiit ano. doi. i6i6, ^tatis, 53. Die 23 Ap.” (God be praised), do make and ordain this my last will and testament in manner and form following ; that is to say — “ First, I commend my soul into the hands of God my Creator, hoping, and assuredly believing, through the only merits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour, to be made partaker of life everlasting ; and my body to the earth, whereof it is made.” The will then goes on to dispose of an amount of houses, lands, plate, money, jewels, &c., which showed certainly that the poet had possessed some worldly skill and thrift in accumulation, and to divide them with a care and accuracy which would indicate that he was by no means of that dreamy and unpractical habit of mind which cares not what becomes of worldly goods. We may also infer something of a man’s character from the tone and sentiments of others towards him. Glass of a certain colour casts on surrounding objects a reflection of its own hue,, and so the tint of a man’s character returns upon us in the habitual manner in which he is spoken of by those around him. The common mode of speaking of Shakespeare always savoured of endearment. “ Gentle Will ” is an expression that seemed oftenest repeated. Ben Jonson inscribed his funeral verses “To the Memory of my beloved Mr. William Shakespeare he calls him the “ sweet swan of Avon.” Again, in his lines under a bust of Shakespeare, he says, — The figure that thou here seest put. It was for gentle Shakespeare cut. In later times, Milton, who could have known him only by tradition, calls him “my Shakespeare,” “dear son of memory,” and “ sweetest Shakespeare.” Now, nobody ever wrote of sweet John Milton, or gentle John Milton, or gentle Martin Luther, or even sweet Ben Jonson. Rowe says of Shakespeare, “ The latter part of his life was spent as all men of good sense would wish theirs may be — in ease, retirement, and the conversa- tion of his friends. His pleasurable wit and good- nature engaged him in the acquaintance, and entitled him to the friendship, of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood.” And Dr. Drake says, “ He was high in reputation as a poet, favoured by the great and the accomplished, and beloved by all who knew him.” That Shakespeare had religious principle I infer not merely from the indications of his will and tomb- stone, but from those strong evidences of the working of the religious element which are scattered through his plays. No man could have a clearer perception of God’s authority and man’s duty ; no one has expressed more forcibly the strength of God’s govern- ment, the spirituality of his requirements, or shown N 2 92 Life of Shakespeare. with more fearful power the struggles of the “ law in the members warring against the law of the mind.” These evidences, scattered through his plays, of deep religious struggles, make probable the idea that in the latter, thoughtful, and tranquil years of his life, devotional impulses might have settled into habits, and that the solemn language of his will, in which he professes his faith in Christ, was not a mere form. Probably he had all his life, even in his gayest hours, more real religious principle than the hilarity of his manner would give reason to suppose. I always fancy he was thinking of himself when he wrote this character : “For the man doth fear God, howsoever it seem not in him by reason of some large jests he doth make.” Neither is there any foundation for the impression that he was undervalued in his own times. No literary man of his day had more success, more flattering attentions from the great, or reaped more of the substantial fruits of popularity, in the form of worldly goods. While his contemporary, Ben Jonson, sick in a miserable alley, is forced to beg, and receives but a wretched pittance from Charles I., Shakespeare’s for- tune steadily increases from year to year. He buys the best place in his native town, and fits it up with great taste ; he offered to lend, on proper security, a sum of money for the use of the town of Stratford ; he added to his estate in Stratford a hundred and seventy acres of land ; he bought half the great and small tithes of Stratford ; and his annual income is estimated to have been what would at the present time be nearly four thousand dollars. We had little time to look about us to see Stratford in the sunshine ; so we went over to a place on the banks of the Avon, where it was said we could gain a very perfect view of the church. The remembrance of this spot is to me like a very pleasant dream. The day was bright, the air was soft and still, as we walked up and down the alleys of a beautiful garden that extended quite to the church ; the rooks were dreamily cawing, and wheeling in dark airy circles round the old buttresses and spire. A funeral train had come into the graveyard, and the passing-bell was tolling. A thousand undefined emotions struggled in my mind. Tliat loving heart, that active fancy, that subtile elastic power of appreciating and expressing all phases, all passions of humanity, are they breathed out on the wind } are they spent like the lightning are they exhaled like the breath of flowers t or are they still living, still active } and if so, where and how } Is it reserved for us, in that “ undiscovered country ” which he spoke of, ever to meet the great souls whose breath has kindled our souls ^ I think we forget the consequences of our own belief in immortality, and look on the ranks of prostrate dead I as a mower on fields of prostrate flowers, forgetting j that activity is an essential of souls, and that every soul which has passed away from this world must ever since have been actively developing those habits of mind and modes of feeling which are begun here. The haughty, cruel, selfish Elizabeth, and all the great men of her court, are still living and acting somewhere ; but where For my part I am often reminded, when dwelling on departed genius, of Luther’s ejaculation for his favourite classic poet, “ I hope God will have mercy on such.” We speak of the glory of God as exhibited in I natural landscape-making ; what is it compared with I the glory of God as shown in the making of souls, j especially those souls which seem to be endowed with a creative power like His own ? There seem, strictly speaking, to be only two classes of souls — the creative and the receptive. Now, these creators seem to me to have a beauty and a worth about them entirely independent of their moral cha- racter. That ethereal power which shows itself in Greek sculpture and Gothic architecture, in Rubens, Shakespeare, and Mozart, has a quality to me inex- pressibly admirable and lovable. We may say, it is true, that there is no moral excellence in it ; but none the less do we admire it. God has made us so that we cannot help loving it ; our souls go forth to it with an infinite longing, nor can that longing be con- demned. That mystic quality that exists in these souls is a glimpse and intimation of what exists in Him in full perfection. If we remember this, we shall not lose ourselves in admiration of worldly genius, but be led by it to a better understanding of what He is, of whom all the glories of poetry and art are but symbols and shadows.* Hugh Miller, in 1845, before the railway had reached the quiet old town, thus noted a visit to Shakespeare’s birth-place : — The drive from Birmingham, for the greater part of the way, is rather tame. There is no lack of fields and hedge-rows, houses and trees ; but, from the great flatness of the country, they are doled out to the eye in niggardly detail, at the rate of about two fields and three hedge-rows at a time. Within a few miles of Stratford-on-Avon, however, the scenery improves. We are still on the Upper New Red Sand- stone, and on this formation the town is built : but the Lias beyond shoots out, just in the line of our route, into a long promontory, capped by two insulated out- liers, that, projected far in advance, form the outer piquets of the newer and higher system ; and for some * “Sunny Memories in Foreign Lands.” Sampson Low. 93 Pilgrimages to the Great Author s Birthplace. four or five miles ere we enter the place, we coast along the tree-mottled shores of this green headland and its terminal islands. A scattered suburb intro- duces us to a rather commonplace-looking street of homely brick houses, that seem as if they had all been reared within the last half-century ; all, at least, save one, a rude, unsightly specimen of the oak-framed domicile of the days of Elizabeth and James. Its walls are encrusted with staring whitewash, its beams carelessly daubed over with lamp-black ; a deserted butcher’s shop, of the fifth-rate class, with the hooks still sticking in the walls, and the sill-board still spread out, as if to exhibit the joints, occupies the ground floor ; the one upper story contains a single rickety casement, with a forlorn flower-pot on the sill ; and directly in front of the building there is what seems a rather clumsy sign-board, hung between two poles, that bears on its weather-beaten surface a double line of white faded letters on a ground of black. We read the inscription, and this humblest of dwellings — humble, and rather vulgar to boot — rises in interest over the palaces of kings : — “ The immortal Shake- speare was born in this house.” I shall first go and see the little corner his birth-place, I said, and then the little corner his burial-place : they are scarce half a mile apart ; nor, after the lapse of more than two centuries, does the intervening modicum of time between the two events, his birth and his burial, bulk much larger than the modicum of space that separates the respective scenes of them ; but how marvellously is the world filled with the cogitations which employed that one brain in that brief period ! Could it have been some four pounds’ weight of convoluted matter, divided into two hemispheres, that, after originating these buoyant immaterialities, projected them upon the broad current of time, and bade them sail onwards and downwards for ever .? I cannot believe it : the sparks of a sky-rocket survive the rocket itself but a very few seconds. I cannot believe that these thoughts of Shakespeare, “ that wander through eternity,” are the mere sparks of an exploded rocket — the mere scintillations of a little galvanic battery, made of fibre and albumen, like that of the torpedo, and whose ashes would now lie in the corner of a snuff-box. I passed through the butcher’s shop, over a broken stone pavement, to a little gloomy kitchen behind, and then, under charge of the guide, up a dark narrow stair, to the low-browed room in which the poet was born. The floor of old oak, much worn in the seams, has apparently undergone no change since little Bill, be- frocked and be-booted in woollen prepared from the rough material by the wool-comber his father, coasted it along the walls, in bold adventure, holding on, as he went, by tables and chairs. The ceiling, too, though unluckily covered up by modern lath and plaster, is in all probability that which stretched over the head of the boy. It presents, at least, no indication of having been raised. A man rather above the middle size may stand erect under its central beam with his hat on, but with certainly no room to spare ; and it seems more than probable that, had the old ceiling been changed for another, the new one would have been heightened. But the walls have been sadly altered. The one window of the place is no longer that through which Shakespeare first saw the light ; nor is the fireplace that at which he stealthily lighted little bits of stick, and twirled them in the air, to see the fiery points converted into fiery circles. There are a few old portraits and old bits of furniture, of somewhat doubt- ful lineage, stuck round the room ; and, on the top of an antique cabinet, a good plaster cast of the monu- mental bust in the church, in which, from its greater accessibility, one can better study than in the original, the external signs affixed by nature to her mind of largest calibre. Every part of the walls and ceiling is inscribed with names. I might add mine, if I chose, to the rest, the woman told me ; but I did not choose it. Milton and Dryden would have added theirs ; he, the sublimest of poets, who, ere criticism had taken the altitude of the great writer whom he so fervently loved and admired, could address him in the fondness of youthful enthusiasm as “ my Shakespeare and he, the sympathetic critic, who first dared to deter- mine that “of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, Shakespeare had the largest and most comprehensive soul.” Messrs. Wiggins and Tims, too, would have added their names ; and all right. They might not exactly see for themselves what it was that rendered Shakespeare so famous ; but their admiration, enter- tained on trust, would be at least a legitimate echo of his renown ; and so their names would have quite a right to be there as representatives of the outer halo — the second rainbow, if I may so express myself — of the poet’s celebrity. But I was ashamed to add mine. I remembered that I was a zvriter ; that it was my business to write ; to cast, day after day, shavings from off my mind — the figure is Cowper’s — that went rolling away, crisp and dry, among the vast heap already on the floor, and were never more heard of ; and so I didn’t add my name. No one need say what sort of a building the church of Stratford-on-Avon is : no other edifice in the king- dom has half so often employed the pencil and the burin. I may just remark, however, that it struck me at a little distance, rising among its graceful trees, beside its quiet river, as one of the finest old English churches I had yet seen. One passes, in approaching it from the poet’s birth-place, through the greater part of Stratford. We see the town-hall, a rather homely building — the central point of the bizarre Jubilee Festival of 1769 — with a niche in front, occupied by a statue of Shakespeare, presented to the town by David 94 Life of Shakespeare, Garrick, the grand master of ceremonies on the occa- sion. We then pass a lane, which leads down to the river, and has a few things worth looking at on either hand. There is an old Gothic chapel on the one side, with so ancient a school attached to it, that it existed as such in the days of the poet’s boyhood ; and in this school, it is supposed, he may have acquired the little learning that served fairly to enter him on his after- course of world-wide attainment. Little, I suppose, would have served the purpose ; a given knowledge of the alphabet, and of the way of compounding its letters into words as his premises, would have enabled the little fellow to work out the rest of the problem for himself There has been much written on the learning of Shakespeare, but not much to the purpose : one of our old Scotch proverbs is worth all the disser- tations on the subject I have yet seen. “God’s bairns,” it says, “ are eath to lear',' i. e. easily instructed. Shakespeare must, I suppose, have read many more books than Homer (we may be sure, every good one that came in his way, and some bad ones), and yet Homer is held to have known a thing or two ; the more ancient poet was unquestionably as ignorant of English as the more modern one of Greek ; and as the one produced the “ Iliad ” without any acquaint- ance with “ Hamlet,” I do not see why the other might not have produced “ Hamlet ” without any acquaintance with the “Iliad.” Johnson was quite in the right in holding, that though the writings of Shakspeare exhibit “ much knowledge, it is often such knowledge as books did not supply.” He might have added further, that the knowledge they display, which books supply, is of a kind which might be all found in English books at the time — fully one-half of it, indeed, in the romances of the period. Every great writer, in the department in which he achieves his greatness, whether he be a learned Milton or an un- learned Burns, is self-taught. One stately vessel may require much tugging ere she gets fairly off the beach, whereas another may float off, unassisted, on the top of the flowing tide ; but when once fairly prosecuting their voyage in the open sea, both must alike depend on the spread sail and the guiding rudder, on the winds of heaven and the currents of the deep. On the opposite side of the lane, directly fronting the chapel, and forming the angle where lane and street unite, there is a plain garden-wall, and an equally plain dwelling-house ; and these indicate the site of Shakespeare’s domicile — the aristocratic mansion — one of the “greatest,” it is said, in Strat- ford — which the vagrant lad, who had fled the country in disgrace, returned to purchase for himself, when still a young man — no longer a vagrant, however, and “ well to do in the world.’' The poet’s wildnesses could not have lain deep in his nature, or he would scarce have been a wealthy citizen of Stratford in his thirty- third year. His gardens extended to the river side — a distance of some two or three hundred yards ; and doubtless the greater part of some of his later dramas must have been written amid their close green alleys and straight-lined walks — for they are said to have been quaint, rich, and formal, in accordance with the taste of the period ; and so comfortable a mansion was the domicile, that, in 1643, Queen Henrietta, when at Stratford with the Royalist army, made it her place of residence for three weeks. I need scarce tell its subsequent story. After passing through several hands, it was purchased, about the middle of the last century, by the Rev. Francis Gastrall — a nervous, use- less, ill-conditioned man, much troubled by a bad stomach and an unhappy temper. The poet’s mul- berry-tree had become ere now an object of interest ; and his reverence, to get rid of the plague of visitors, cut it down and chopped it into faggots. The enraged people of the town threw stones and broke his reverence’s windows ; and then, to spite them still more, and to get rid of a poor-rate assessment to boot, he pulled down the poet’s house. And so his [ reverence’s name shares, in consequence, in the cele- j brity of that of Shakespeare — “pursues the triumph I and partakes the gale.” The Rev. Francis Gastrall j must have been, I greatly fear, a pitiful creature ; and the clerical prefix in no degree improves the name. The quiet street gets still quieter as one approaches the church. We see on either side a much greater j breadth of garden-wall than of houses — walls with the 1 richly-fruited branches peeping over ; and at the churchyard railing, thickly overhung by trees, there is so dense a mass of foliage, that of the church, which towers so high in the distance, w'e can discern no part save the door. A covered way of thick o’er-arching limes runs along the smooth flat grave-stones from gateway to doorway. The sunlight was streaming this day in many a fantastic patch on the lettered pavement below, though the chequering of shade pre- dominated ; but at the close of the vista the Gothic door opened dark and gloomy, in the midst of broad sunshine. The Avon flows past the churchyard wall. One may drop a stone at arm’s-length over the edge of the parapet, into four-feet water, and look down on shoals of tiny fish in play around the sedges. I entered the silent church, and passed along its rows of old oak pews, on to the chancel. The shadows of the trees outside were projected dark against the windows, and the numerous marbles of the place glimmered cold and sad in the thickened light. The chancel is raised a single step over the floor — a step some twelve or fourteen inches in height ; and, ranged on end along its edge, just where the ascending foot would rest, there lie three flat tombstones. One of • these covers the remains of “William Shakespeare, Gentleman ;”the second, the remains of his wife, Ann 95 Pilgrimages to the Great AtUhors Birthplace. Hathaway ; while the third rests over the dust of his favourite daughter Susanna, and her husband John Hall. And the well-known monument — in paley tints of somewhat faded white lead — is fixed in the wall immediately above, at rather more than a man’s height from the floor. At the risk of being deemed sadly devoid of good taste, I must dare assert that I better like the homely monumental bust of the poet, low as is its standing as a work of art, than all the idealized representations of him which genius has yet transferred to marble or canvas. There is more of the true Shakespeare in it. Burns complained that the criticisms of Blair, if adopted, would make his verse “ too fine for either warp or woof and such has been the grand defect of the artistic idealisms which have been given to the world as portraits of the dramatist. They make him so pretty a fellow, all redolent of poetic odours, “shining so brisk ” and “smelling so sweet,” likb the fop that annoyed Hotspur, that one seriously asks if such a person could ever have got through the world. No such type of man, leaving Stratford penniless in his twenty-first year, would have returned in his thirty-third to purchase the “ capital messuage ” of New Place, “ with all the appurtenances,” and to take rank amid the magnates of his native town. The poet of the artists would never have been “William Shak- speare, Gentlemmi," nor would his burying-ground have laid in the chancel of his parish church. About the Shakespeare of the stone bust, on the contrary, there is a purpose-like strength and solidity. The head, a powerful mass of brain, would require all Dr. Chalmers’s hat ; the forehead is as broad as that of the Doctor, considerably taller, and of more general capacity ; and the whole countenance is that of a shrewd, sagacious, kindly-tempered man, who could, of course, be poetical when he willed it — vastly more so, indeed, than anybody else — but who mingled wondrous little poetry in the management of his every-day business. The Shakespeare of the stone bust could, with a very slight training, have been Chancellor of the Exchequer ; and in opening the budget, his speech would embody many of the figures of Cocker, judiciously arranged, but not one poetical figure. On quitting the church, I walked for the better part of two miles upwards along the Avon — first on the Stratford side to the stone bridge, which I crossed, and then on the side opposite, through quiet, low-lying meadows, bordered by fields. Up to the bridge the stream is navigable, and we may see the occasional sail gleaming white amid the green trees, as it glides past the resting-place of the poet. But on the upper side there are reaches through which even a light shallop would have difficulty in forcing her way. The bulrush attains, in the soft oozy soil that forms the sides and bottom of the river, to a great size : I pulled stems from eight to ten feet in height ; and in the flatter inflections, where the current stagnates, it almost chokes up the channel from side to side. Here it occurs in tall hedge-like fringes that line and overtop the banks — there, in island-like patches, in the middle of the stream — yonder, in diffused trans- verse thickets, that seem to connect the fringes on the one side with the fringes on the other. I have rarely seen anything in living nature — nature recent and vital — that better enabled me to realize the luxuriant aquatic vegetation of the Coal Measures. The un- broken stream dimples amid the rushes ; in the open depths we may mark, as some burnished fly flutters along the surface, the sullen plunge of the carp ; the eel, startled by the passing shadow, wriggles out- ward from its bank of mud ; while scores of careless gudgeons, and countless shoals of happy minnows, dart hither and thither, like the congregated midges that dance unceasingly in th^ upper element but a few inches over them. For the first mile or so, the trees which line the banks are chiefly old willow pollards, with stiff rough stems and huge bunchy heads. Shrubs of various kinds, chiefly, however, the bramble and the woody nightshade, have struck root atop into their decayed trunks, as if these formed so many tall flower- pots ; and we may catch, in consequence, the unwonted glitter of glossy black and crimson berries from amid the silvery leaves. The scenery improves as we ascend the stream. The willow pollards give place to forest trees, carelessly grouped, that preserve, unlopped and unmutilated, their proper proportions. But the main features of the landscape remain what they were. A placid stream, broadly befringed with sedges, winds in tortuous reaches through rich meadows ; and now it sparkles in open sunlight, for the trees recede ; and anon it steals away, scarce seen, amid the gloom of bosky thickets. And such is the Avon — Shakespeare’s own river. Here must he have wandered in his boy- hood, times unnumbered. That stream, with its sedges and its quick glancing fins — those dewy banks, with their cowslips and daffodils — trees chance-grouped, exactly such as these, and to which these have suc- ceeded — must all have stamped their deep impress on his mind ; and when an unsettled adventurer in London, they must have risen before him in all their sunshiny peacefulness, to inspire feelings of sadness and regret ; and when, in after-days, he had found his true vocation, their loved forms and colours must have mingled with the tissue of his poetry. And here must he have walked in sober middle life, when fame and fortune had both been achieved, happily to feel amid the solitude that there is but little of solid good in either, and that, even were it otherwise, the stream of life glides away to its silent bourne, from their gay light and their kindly shelter, to return no more for ever. What would his thoughts have been, if, after 96 Life of Shakespeare. spending in these quiet recesses his fiftieth birth-day, he could have foreseen that the brief three score and ten annual revolutions— few as certainly as evil — which have so long summed up the term of man’s earthly existence, were to be mulcted, in his case, of full seventeen years ! How would this master of human nature have judged of the homage that has now been paid him for these two centuries ? and what would have been his theory of “ Hero Worship ” ? Many a bygone service of this inverted religion has Stratford-on-Avon witnessed. The Jubilee devised by Garrick has no doubt much of the player in it ; but it possessed also the real | devotional substratum, and formed the type, on a splendid scale, not less in its hollowness than in its ground-work of real feeling, of those countless acts of devotion of which the poet’s birth and burial places have been the scene. ^ An instinct so widely diffused and so deeply im- planted in human nature, cannot surely be a mere accident : it must form, however far astray of the proper mark it may wander, one of the original com- ponents of the mental constitution, which we have not given ourselves. What would it be in its integrity } It must, it would appear, have humanity on which to rest — a nature identical with our own ; and yet, when it finds nothing higher than mere humanity, it is con- ] tinually running, as in the case of the Stratford Jubilee, { into grotesque idolatry. Did Shakespeare, with all his | vast knowledge, know where its aspirations could be j directed aright ? The knowledge seems to have got somehow into his family ; nay, she who appears to have possessed it was the much-loved daughter on whom his affections mainly rested. Witty above her sexe ; but that’s not all, — Wise to salvation was good Mistress Hall. So says her epitaph in the chancel, where she sleeps at the feet of her father. There is a passage in the j poet’s will, too, written about a month ere his death, j which may be, it is true, a piece of mere form, but j which may possibly be something better. “ I com- mend my soul into the hands of God my Creator, hoping, and assuredly believing, through the only | merits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour, to be made par- taker of life everlasting.” It is, besides, at least some- thing, that this play-writer and play-actor, with wit at will, and a shrewd appreciation of the likes and dis- likes of the courts and monarchs he had to please, drew for their amusement no Mause Headriggs or Gabriel Kettledrummels. Puritanism could have been no patronizer of the Globe Theatre. Both Elizabeth and James hated the principle with a perfect hatred, and strove hard to trample it out of existence ; and such a laugh at its expense as a Shakespeare could have raised, would have been doubtless a high luxury ; | nay, Puritanism itself was somewhat sharp and pro- voking in those days, and just a little coarse in its jokes, as the Martin Mar-Prelate tracts survive to testify ; but the dramatist, who grew wealthy under the favour of the Puritan-detesting monarchs, was, it would seem, not the man to make reprisals. There are scenes in his earlier dramas, from which, as eternity neared upon his view, he could have derived little satisfaction ; but there is no “Old Mortality” among them. Had the poor player some sense of what his beloved daughter seems to have clearly discovered — the true “Hero Worship” ? In his broad survey of nature and of man, did he mark one solitary character standing erect amid the moral waste of creation, un- touched by taint of evil or of weakness — a character infinitely too high for even his vast genius to conceive, or his profound comprehension to fathom } Did he draw near to inquire, and to wonder, and then fall down humbly to adore ? Stratford-on-Avon and Shottery is well described by William Howitt : — I must confess that there was no spot connected with Shakespeare at Stratford that so strongly inte- rested me as Shottery, the little rustic village where Ann Hathaway was born, and where Shakespeare wooed, and whence he married her. The house in which he was born is turned into a butcher’s shop ; his birth there was a mere accident, and the accidents of time have not added to the intrinsic interest of the place ; the house which he built or improved for him- self, and in which he spent the last years of his life, was pulled down, and dispersed piecemeal by the infamous parson Gastrell, who thus “ doomed himself to eternal fame ” more thoroughly than the fool who fired the Temple of Diana ; but the birth-place and the marriage-place of Ann Hathaway is just as it was; and, excepting the tombs of Shakespeare and herself, the only authentic and unchanged traces of their existence here. I therefore hastened away to Shot- tery, the very first moment I could get out of the inn. It is but a short walk to it, across some pleasant meadows, and I pleased myself wath thinking, as I strode along, with what delight Shakespeare, in his youth, trod the same path, on his way to see his fair Ann Hathaway ; and how often, in his latter years, when he had renounced public life, and she was his “ all the world,” they might, led by the sweet recol- lections of the past, often stroll that way together, and, perhaps, visit some of their kindred under the same rustic roof The village is a real rustic village indeed, consisting of a few farm-houses, and of half-timbered cottages of the most primitive construction, standing apart, one from the other, in their old gardens and orchards. • ' ’I r 4.' :vrr I* ■• \ \ / \ ■ ii i'.» 'y"i‘" ,.' ■5 5 . -i ‘k ’ 1 * 97 Pilgrimages to the Great A zithors Birthplace. Nothing can exceed the simplicity and quiet of this rustic hamlet. It is the beau-ideal of Goldsmith’s Auburn. The village public-house is the “ Shakespeare Tavern,” a mere cottage, like the rest. No modern innovations, no improvements, seem to have come hither to disturb the image of the past times. The cot- tages stand apart from each other, in their gardens and orchard-crofts, and are just what the poets delight to describe. The country around is pleasant, though not very striking. Its great charm is its perfect rurality. Ann Hathaway’s cottage stands at the farther end of this scattered and secluded hamlet, at the feet of plea- sant uplands, and from its rustic casements you catch glimpses of the fine breezy ranges of the Ilmington and Meon hills, some miles southward ; and of Strat- ford church spire eastward, peeping over its trees. The cottage is a long tenement, of the most primitive character ; of timber framing, filled up with brick and plaster work. Its doors are grey with age, and have the old-fashioned wooden latches, with a bit of wood nailed on the outside of the door to take hold of while you pull the string ; just such a latch as, no doubt, was on the door of Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, when the wolf said to the little girl, “ Pull the string, and you’ll get in.” The antiquity of the house is testified by the heads of the wooden pins, which fasten the framing, standing up some inches from the walls, according to the rude fashion of the age, never having been cut off. The end of the cottage comes to the village road : and the side which looks into the orchard is covered with vines, and roses, and rosemary. The orchard is a spot all knolls and hollows, where you might imagine the poet, when he came here a-wooing, or in the after-days of his renown, when he came hither to see his wife’s friends, and to indulge in day-dreams of the past, as he represents the King of Denmark, — Sleeping within mine orchard. My custom always of the afternoon, lying on the mossy turf, and enjoying the pleasant sunshine, and the flickering shadows of the old apple- tree. The orchard extends up the slope a good way ; then you come to the cottage garden, and then to another orchard. You walk up a little narrow path, between hedges of box, and amongst long grass. All the homely herbs and flowers which grow about the real old English cottage, and which Shake- speare delighted to introduce into his poetry — the rosemary, celandine, honeysuckle, marigold, mint, thyme, rue, sage, &c., meet your eye as you proceed. The commentators of Shakespeare have puzzled them^ selves wonderfully about some of the plainest matters of his text, and about none more than the identity of the dewberry. In the “ Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Titania tells the fairies to be kind to Bottom : — Be kind and courteous to this gentleman ; Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes ; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, With purple grapes, figs, and mulberries ; The honey-bags steal from the humble bees, &c. These same dewberries have cost the expounders of his text a world of trouble. As apricots, grapes, and figs are very good things, they could not bring their fancies to believe that the fairies would feed Bottom on aught less dainty, even though he yearned hungrily after good oats and a bundle of hay. All kinds of fruits were run over in the scale of delicacies, and not finding any of the finer sorts which ever bore the name of dewberry, they at last sagely conclude that it must be a gooseberry, because the gooseberry j is only once mentioned as a gooseberry in all his dramas. A wise conclusion ! What a pity that those laborious and ingenious commentators would but step occasionally out of their studies, and go into Shake- speare’s own neighbourhood and hear the peasantry there talk. They would not only have long ago discovered what a dewberry is, but might have many a phrase and proverb, that would have thrown more light on the text of Shakspeare, than will ever stream in through a library window in half a century. A I dewberry is a species of blackberry, but of a larger grain, of a finer acid, and having upon it a purple bloom, like the violet plum. It is^a fruit well known by that name to botanists {rubns eoeshis), and by that name it has always been well known by the common people in the midland counties. As I walked round the orchard of Ann Hathaway, I was quite amused to see it growing plentifully on the banks ; and taking up a sprig of it, with some berries on it, I asked almost every countryman and every countrywoman whom I met during the day, what they called that fruit. In every instance, they at once replied “ the dewberry.” While I was in that neighbourhood, I repeatedly asked the peasantry if they knew such a thing as a dewberry. In every case they replied, “To be sure ; it is like a blackberry, only its grains are larger, and it is more like a mulberry.” A very good description. “Yes,” said others, “it grows low on the banks ; it grows plentifully all about this country.” So much for all the critical nonsense about the dew- berry. I could not avoid noticing many such little touches of natural imagery with which Shakspeare has en- riched the poetical portion of his text, as I strolled about this garden and orchard. In the “ Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act iv., Shakespeare says, — The female ivy so Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. Why the barky fingers of the elm } Because the young shoots of the elm and those of the maple cover themselves with a singular corky bark, which o 98 Life of Shakespeare. rises in longitudinal ridges, of frequently more than a quarter of an inch high, and presenting a very singular appearance. It is a curious fact that the elm is the great natural growth of the country about Stratford, and must have been particularly familiar to Shakespeare’s eye, and in this very orchard he must have seen plenty of the very images he has used. I pleased myself with imagining the quiet happiness which he had enjoyed with his Ann Hathaway in this very spot, while these rural images and happy illustrations silently flowed into his mind from the things around him. There was an old arbour of box, the trees of which had grown high and wild, having a whole wilderness of periwinkle at their feet; and upon the wooden end of a shed forming one side of this arbour grew a honeysuckle, which seemed as though it might have grown in the very days of Shakespeare, for it had all the character of a very old tree ; little of it showing any life, and its bark hanging from its stem in filaments of more than a foot long, like the tatters and beard of an ancient beggar. At the door looking into this orchard is a sort of raised platform, j up three or four steps, with a seat upon it, so that the i cottagers might sit and enjoy at once the breeze and j the prospect of the orchard and fields beyond. There is a passage right through the house, with a very old high-backed bench of oak in it, said to have been there in Shakespeare’s time, and old enough to have been there long before. The whole of the interior is | equally simple and rustic. I have been more par- | ticular in speaking of this place, because, perhaps, at ' the very moment I write these remarks, this interesting | dwelling may be destroyed, and all that I have been j describing have given way to the ravages of modern i change. The place is sold, and perhaps the cottage of Ann Hathaway is now no more. A Mr. Barns, a farmer of the neighbouring hamlet of Luddington, has bought the whole property for .^"300, and talks of pulling down the house at spring. He has already pulled down some of the neighbouring cottages, and built up a row of red staring ones in their places ; and already he has made an ominous gap into Ann Hathaway’s orchard ! The Taylors, the old proprie- tors, who have lived in the cottage for many years, were gone, the very morning I was there, to Stratford, to sign the conveyance. America did honour to herself in having designated as Consul at Birmingham one of her most genial sons, Elihu Burritt, “the learned blacksmith,” known all over the world by his admirable papers exhortative j of universal peace and amity among nations. These eloquent appeals of Burritt’s have been translated into nearly every known language ; their value in bringing about fraternal relations among different peoples cannot be over-estimated. The stay of this guileless man among us was very short lived ; for a few years only he rested in “ loved old England,” as he fondly termed it. The political necessities at Washington “ chopped off his head,” as our American friends term it. In other words, this worthy gentle- man, whom every one delighted to honour, who did credit to the Government which placed him here, is turned adrift on the world, in the declining years of his life, simply to make room for some electioneering partisan, whose services to the dominant party claimed the good old man’s post as their reward. Thank God, we do not yet so manage matters in “ the old country.” As a sterling author, Elihu Burritt thus recorded his delights at a visit to the great poet’s birthplace : — Stratford-upon-avon and Shakespeare ; his Fame past and prospective. And this is Stratford-upon-Avon } Is there another town in Christendom to equal it for the centripetal attraction of one human memory ? Let him who thinks there is tell us where the like may be found. London is the birth and burial-place of a large num- ber of distinguished poets, philosophers, statesmen, and heroes. Their lives make for it a nebulous lustre. The orbits of their brilliant careers overlap each other so that their individual paths of light, intersecting in their common illumination, like netted sunbeams, do not make any vivid or distinctive lines over the face or over the history of the great city ; but the memory of Shakespeare covers with its disc the whole life and being and history, ancient and modern, of Stratford- upon-Avon. There is nothing seen or felt, before or behind it, but William Shakespeare. In no quarter of the globe, since he was laid to his last sleep by the sunny side of the peaceful river, has the name of the little town been mentioned without suggesting and meaning him. Many a populous city is proud of the smallest segment of a great man’s glory. “He was born there.” That is a great thing to say, and they say it with exultation, showing this heirloom of honour to strangers as the richest inheritance of their town. But being born in a particular place is more a matter of accident than of personal option. No one chooses ' his own birthplace : and the sheer fact that he there made his entrde into the world is, after all, a rather negative distinction to those who boast of it. But quiet little Stratford-upon-Avon can say far more than this. Shakespeare not only was born here, but he spent his last days and died here. Nor did he come back to his native land a broken-down old man, to be nursed in the last stages of decrepitude, and to be buried with his fathers. He returned hither in the zenith of his intellectual manhood, to spend the Indian summer of his life in the midst of the sceneries 99 Pilgrhnages to the Great Author s Birthplace. and companionships of his boyhood. Thus, no other human memory ever covered so completely with its speculum the name or history of a town, or filled it with such a vivid, vital image as Shakespeare has done to Stratford-upon-Avon. Here, — Like footprints hidden by a brook. But seen on either side, he has left the marks on the sunny banks and across the soft, level meadows, basking in the bosom of the little river. The break is not wide between those he made in these favourite walks in his youth, and the footprints of his ripe age as a permanent resident and citizen. Perhaps he and his Ann Hathaway, after his London life, delighted to make sunset strolls across the daisied fields to the cottage of his childhood and of their first love and troth. Never before or since did a transcendent genius make so much history for the world and so little for himself as did Shakespeare. Here is the quaint little house where he was born. It has been painted, en- graved, photographed, and described ad infinitum. You will find a hundred pictures of it scattered over Christendom where you will find one of Solomon’s temple. Undoubtedly it ranked as a capacious and comfortable dwelling in its day. It is one of the skeleton type so common to the Elizabethan age, that is, the oaken bone-work of the frame is even with the brickwork of the outer walls ; thus showing the fleshless ribs of the house to the outside world. The rooms are small and very low between joints ; still the one assigned by tradition as the birthplace of the great poet is large enough for the greatest of men to be born in. Its ceiling overhead and side walls, however, afford too scant tablet-space for the registry of the names of all who have sought thus to leave their cards in homage of the illustrious memory. Their whole surface, and even the small windows, i have been written and re-written over by the pilgrims to this shrine from different countries. Here are names from the extremest end of the Anglo-Saxon world — from Newfoundland and New Zealand, and all the English-speaking countries between. The Americans have contributed a large contingent to these records of the pencil. There is something very interesting and touching even in the homage they bring to his name. He was the last great English poet who sung to the unbroken family of the English race. They were then all gathered around England’s hearthstone, unconscious of the mighty expansion which the near future was to develope. The popu- lation of the whole island hardly equalled that of the State of New York to-day. Just below the point of diffiuence, about a quarter of a century before England put forth the first rivulet from the river of her being and history to fill the fountain of a new national ! existence in the Western world, Shakespeare was at I his culmination as a poet. We Americans meet him first when we trace back our history to its origin. He, of all the old masters, stands in the very door- j way of “our old home,” to welcome us with the radiant smile of his genius. We were Americans and Milton was an Englishman when he began to write. We hold our right and title in him by courtesy ; but in “ glorious Will ” by full and direct inheritance, as equal co-heirs of all the wealth of his memory. Who- ever classifies the signatures on the walls of his birth- chamber, and in the large record-book brought in to supplement the exhausted writing-space outside, will have striking proof of this American sentiment. The first locale in all England to our countrymen is Stratford-upon-Avon. Westminster, even, stands second in their estimation to the birth and burial- place of this one man. At no other historical point in Europe will you find so many American names recorded as over the spot where he was cradled. This is fitting. We have already become numerically the largest constituency of his fame. Already he has more readers on our continent than on all the other continents and islands of the world ; and from decade to decade, and from century to century, doubtless this preponderance will increase by the ratio of more rapid progression. What a race of kings, princes, knights, ladies, and heroes was created by Shakespeare ! If the truth could be known, more than half the homage the regal courts of to-day get from the spontaneous sentinient of the public heart arises from the dignity with which he haloed the royal brows of his monarchs. They never knew how to talk, and walk, and act with the majesty that befitted a king, until he taught them. Yet how little personal history he made for himself! Not half as many foot-prints of his personality can be found as his father’s made at Stratford. This is a mystery that can have but one reasonable explanation. It is no use to say that his social nature was cold or cramped ; that he had not a rather large circle of personal friends, whom he first met and made in London, and who came from different parts of the country. Doubtless he wrote to these and others letters by the score. Where are they t Where is one of them } We have volumes of letters centuries older than the first he wrote brought out quite recently ; but not a scrap of his handwriting turns up to reward the searching hunt of his relic explorers. It is said that only one letter written to him has been preserved ; and this is a begging one from a Richard Quincy, who wants to borrow a sum of money of the poet to keep his head above water in London. I cannot con- ceive to what else this dense obscurity enveloping his personal entity can be ascribed than to the fact that the morning twilight of his fame did not dawn upon O 2 lOO Life of Shakespeare. the world until he had lain in his grave a full century. In this long interval, all the letters he wrote and re- ceived doubtless shared the fate of Caesar’s clay. The greengrocers and haberdashers of that period probably bought and used them for making up their parcels of butter and mustard, and articles of less dignity. All this may be well for the great reputation which the world accords him. It may be well that he left no handwriting in familar lines, no unravelled threads of his common nature which captious critics might follow up into the inner recesses of his daily life, and fleck the disc of his fair fame with the specks and motes they found in the search after moral discre- pancies. It is a wonder that a man of such genius could have died less than two centuries and a half ago, and have left a character so completely shut in and barred against “ the peering littlenesses ” of speering yellow-eyed curiosity. A soft^ still blue, of a hundred years deep, surrounds his personal being. Through this mild cerulean haze it shows itself fair and round. Well it is for him, perhaps, that we of to-day cannot get nearer to him than the gentle horizon of this inter- vening century. It is a seamless mantle that Pro- vidence has wrapped around the statue of his life, in which no envious Casca can ever make a rent to get at the frailties or small actions of a great master. No man ever lived more hermetically in his writings than Shakespeare. His personal being is as completely shut up and embodied in them as Homer’s is in his grand epics. Will the life that breathes in them prove im- mortal ? Three centuries are not immortality. Will the sexcentenary anniversary of his birth be celebrated after the fashion of 1864 ? Through all the changes in taste and moral and intellectual perceptions that may arise in that or a shorter interval, will his genius and his works be held at our estimate ? Was he as a poet what Rubens was as a painter, and will the pen of the one and the pencil of the other be put on the same footing and have the same chance for the admi- ration of future generations ? No one can reason out the extreme ends of these parallels, or predict the verdict of another century with regard to these men. But the fact we have already cited will serve as the basis of a reasonable belief in this matter. It must have been a full hundred years after Shakespeare was laid in his last sleep, in the chancel of the church in which he was baptized, before he began to have a popular reputation, or a reading by even the educated classes in England. At the end of the second century that reputation had spread itself over the whole civilized world. From 1623 to 1823 no writers had arisen to eclipse or supersede his genius. In this wide interval hundreds of authors, widely read in their day, went down to oblivion, some to obloquy. They could not live on the sea of public opinion. Now we are in the middle of the third century of his fame. How does it rank at this moment in the estimation of the world ? With all the new and brilliant literature that has flooded Christendom within the last fifty years, has the brightness of his paled in the contrast Has it already gone down into the gorgeous tombs of the Capulets, or to live only in monumental bookbinding with the bygone English classics ? to make a show of elegant gilt-backed volumes in fashionable bookcases as “ standard works,” or works for ever to stand on their lower ends in serried and even ranks, to be seen and not read ! Further from it than ever before. No such lame and impotent conclusion can be predicted from the present appreciation of his writings. The opening years of this very decade mark a new era in their estimation. Virtually, for the first time, he is being introduced to a new world of readers, to the labouring masses of the people. Publishers are taking him into the cottages of the million and bespeaking a hearty and pleasant welcome to his “ Hamlet,” “ Othello,” and all the other creations of his genius. Popular editions of Shakespeare are the order of the day. For the first time the common people begin to know him. Such is the promise of 1869. What is being done in England and America to familiarize the masses with his writings, is repeated on a smaller scale on the continent of Europe. Cheap editions in German and French have been recently put in circu- lation. Doubtless, within half a century, he will be read in every other language in Christendom. His works never had more vitality than at the present moment, nor such a wide breathing space among men. While looking at the dark and dense network of names written upon the walls and windows of the room where Shakespeare was born, there was one I would have walked a hundred miles to see. It was not Lucien Bonaparte’s, nor Sir Walter Scott’s, nor Burns’s, nor Washington Irving’s, it was the name of the man who first pencilled one upon the virgin plaster over the cradle-place of the poet. It would be exceedingly interesting to know who he was, when he did it, and what moved him to this act of homage. What a procession of names his headed ! The whole space is covered with layers of them several deep. If they could all be brought to light, every square inch would reveal fifty at least. The house and garden are in good repair. The latter is beautifully laid out and kept, and is marked by this interesting characteristic ; all the flowers that Shakespeare has celebrated in his plays are here planted, watched, and tended with the nicest care. As a reward for the dew and light his genius shed over them two centuries and a half ago, their sweet eyes keep vigils over his birthplace and perfume it with their morning breath. SHAKESPEARE’S BIBLE LORE. “ God shall be my hope, My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet.” Henry VI. , Part II., Act ii. Scene 3. HAKESPEARE’S Bible lore was vast as his profound knowledge of human nature, and the benefit he derived from it not less. He thoroughly realized its profession to make men “wise unto salvation,” and that the Al- mighty has been mercifully pleased to reveal Him- self as fully as the best and wisest of men can be rendered capable of apprehending Him in this state of being ; sometimes by direct announcement, sometimes by short and pithy maxims, as in the book of Proverbs ; and generally by dramatic representa- tions of the actions of men of every variety of dispo- sition, and of every grade of life, from the king upon his throne, to the shepherd in the field, and the captive in the dungeon, who have lived in different ages of the world. This mode of teaching had an irresistible charm to one of Shakespeare’s bent. We are all affected in a less lively manner by being told that “ the heart is deceitful above all things,” than when the same truth is brought home to us by such exclamations as Nathan’s, “ Thou art the man or by such a fall as Peter’s in the denial of his Master, after the strong protestation even, that he would “ sooner die.” Neither would any homily upon the heroism of self-denial make so lasting an impression upon us, or fire us with so noble an emulation, as the example of David when he put the water from his parched lips with “Be it far from me, O Lord, that I should do this : is not this the blood of the men that went in jeopardy of their lives How young Shakespeare must have feasted on these and like Divine lessons, unconscious the while that he was strengthening his pinions for loftier flights than had ever been attained by uninspired man. Wisdom in selection and power in reproduction determine the quality of genius. In storing his mind, Shakespeare went first to the word and then to the works of God. In shaping the truths derived from these sources, he obeyed the instinct implanted by Him who had formed him Shakespeare. Hence his power of in- spiring us with sublime affection for that which is properly good, and of chilling us with horror by his fearful delineations of evil. He perpetually reminds us of the Bible, not by direct quotation, indirect allusion, borrowed idioms, or palpable imitation of phrase and style, but by an elevation of thought and simplicity of diction which are not to be found else- where. A passage, for instance, rises in our thoughts, unaccompanied by a clear recollection of its origin. Our first impression is that it must belong either to the Bible or to Shakespeare. No other author excites the same feeling in an equal degree. In Shakespeare’s plays religion is a vital and active principle, sustain- ing the good, tormenting the wicked, and influencing the hearts and lives of all. What uninspired writer ever made us feel the value of prayer, as a privilege, so affectingly as he does in three words ? It flashes across the brain of Othello the Moor — the rough soldier — that possibly his friend may be practising upon him ; a conditional curse therefore bursts from his lips, “ If thou dost slander her and torture me, never pray more !” We gladly adopt Dr. Charles Wordsworth’s (Bishop of St. Andrew’s) language in referring to our great author’s Scriptural knowledge, ideas, and language : he says, — There are three ways by which we may estimate his knowledge and use of the Holy Scriptures. The first is the obvious references to the facts and cha- racters of the Bible which his plays contain ; the second, the tone and colouring which pervade his moral and religious principles and sentiments ; and the third, the poetical thoughts or imagery which he borrowed more or less directly from the Scriptures. Let us hear how he writes of justice and mercy, the two cardinal points of the Christian system, as con- trasted with all mere moral philosophy or natural religion. From the Bible, and the Bible interpreted in the light of evangelical truth, could alone be drawn such sentiments as breathe in the following extracts : — Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once ; And He who might the vantage best have took. Found out the remedy. How would you be. If He who is the top of judgment should But judge you as you are t O, think on that ; And mercy then will breathe within your lips. Like man new made. Measure for Measure, Act ii. Scene 2. 102 Life of Shakespeare. In this brief but pregnant passage we have a state- ment of the just requirements of God’s holy law, of man’s shortcoming and the dread consequence ; “ the souls of all were forfeit,” because none, “ no, not one,” could stand in the judgment. But the Judge of all found the remedy ; and the heart that has been touched by Divine grace, the man new made, created anew in Christ, “ born again ” as the Scripture terms it, breathes in his lips the spirit of mercy. The same spirit of the Gospel appears in the famous speech put into Portia’s mouth : — ■ The quality of mercy is not strain’d : It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless’d ; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown : His sceptre shows the force of temporal power. The attribute to awe and majesty. Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings : But mercy is above his sceptred sway ; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; It is an attribute of God himself, And earthly power doth then show likest God’s, When mercy seasons justice, Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this. That in the course of justice none of us Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy. And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy ! Merchant of Venice, Act iv. Scene i. In all this there is more than the vague appeal to Divine mercy irrespective of Divine justice, which marks mere natural religion. The sense of demerit is expressed, and forgiveness is not separated from the appointed remedy — By Christ’s dear blooS, shed for our grievous sins. There are few subjects of literary contemplation more interesting or more profitable than to observe the hold which a great practical subject like that of prayer had upon a mind like that of Shakespeare. Some of our distinguished poets have unhappily allowed themselves, at one time or other, if not throughout their career, to imagine difficulties in the way of the performance of this duty ; but there is no evidence, in any of his plays, that he ever entertained any but the truest and most just conceptions of it. In “ Hamlet” we have its twofold force, as obtaining either grace to pre- vent us from sinning, or pardon when we have sinned : — What’s in Prayer, but this twofold force, — To be forestalled, ere we come to fall Or pardon’d, being down ? Act iii. Scene 3. The mysterious power of religion over bad men is displayed in Richard III. : — Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another Within their alabaster innocent arms : Their lips were four red roses on a stalk Which, in their summer beauty, kiss’d each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay ; Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind. Act iv. Scene 3. The book of prayers — the calm deep sleep — give such mute evidence of innocence and trust in God as to suspend for an instant the designs of heartless villainy. In the epilogue to the “Tempest” the efficacy of pardon is represented as an antidote to despair : — My ending is despair Unless I be relieved by prayer ; Which pierces so, that it assaults Mercy itself, and frees all faults. It was not without reference in his own mind to the practice of Daniel (vi. 10), and to the ancient hours of the Church, that he puts into the mouth of Imogen, one of his sweetest and most attractive characters, those touching lines in which she represents herself as offering up prayers, three times a day, for her lover, and as having intended to enjoin the same practice upon him, in her behalf, before they parted, had not her father interposed to prevent the interview ; other- wise, she says, I would Have charged him At sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight To encounter me with orisons, for then / am in heaven for Imn. Cytnbeline, Act i. Scene 4. And the same devotional character is kept up, when, after she had become, in disguise, the page of Belarius, now supposed to be slain, she attaches herself to Lucius, the Roman general, in the same capacity : — But first, an’t please the gods. I’ll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig ; and when With wild wood leaves and weeds I have strew’d his grave. And on it said a century of prayers. Such as I can, twice over. I’ll weep and sigh ; And, leaving so his service, follow you : So please you entertain me. Act iv. Scene 2. Nor is there any reason to suppose that Shakespeare designed to exhibit examples of the practice of this duty only, or specially, in the weaker sex. On the contrarjq it is kings and nobles whom he has chosen most of all to represent as men of prayer. This we expect in King Henry VI., — Famed, as he was, for mildness, peace and prayer. Henry VI., Part III. Act ii. Scene i. And so, when Gloster stabs him in the Tower, the last words he is made to utter are these, in which he prays at once for himself and for his murderer ; — O God ! forgive my sins, and pardon thee. Ibid., Act V. Scene 6. Before the battle of Bosworth, in which the wicked usurper was overthrown, not only does Richmond ex- hort his followers to “ march in God’s name ” (Act v. sc. 2), and bids them Remember this, — God, and our good cause, fight upon our side ; The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls. Like high-readd bulwarks stand before our faces ; Act V. Scene 3. Shakespeare s Bible Lore. 103 but he makes in private a set prayer to the same effect when he retires to rest upon the night before the battle : — O Thou ! whose captain I account myself, Look on my forces with a gracious eye ; Put in their hands Thy bruising irons of wrath, That they may crush down with a heavy fall The usurping helmets of our adversaries ! Make us Thy ministers of chastisement. That we may praise Thee in Thy victory ! To Thee I do commend my watchful soul. Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes ; Sleeping, and waking, O ! defend me still ! Richard III., Act v. Scene 6. But besides the self-interested obligation of praying for Divine aid on all important occasions, he had a no less clear conception of the duty and value of inter- cession in behalf of others who need and desire our prayers, as in the picture which he draws of the end of the Duke of Buckingham in “King Henry VIII.’’ The Duke, having been found guilty of high treason, when led forth to execution, thus entreats the few that loved him : — Go with me, like good angels, to my end ; And as the long divorce of steel falls on me. Make ol your prayers one sweet sac 7 'ifice, And lift my soul to heaven. Act ii. Scene i. It is pleasant to think, and it goes some way to prove, that Shakespeare was brought up in an atmo- sphere of religious sentiment, at least, that in the very first scene of what was, if not the first of all, certainly one of his first written plays, the “ Two Gentlemen of Verona,’’ he introduces the notion of friends praying for each other in the case of the two young men, Proteus and Valentine, the latter of whom was on the point of setting out upon his travels : — Proteus. In thy danger. If ever danger do environ thee, Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers. For I will be thy beadstnan, Valentine. Act i. Scene i. And in the case of lovers performing for their beloved the same duty, besides the instance quoted from “Cymbeline,” we have in the “Tempest” a no less beautiful example, where Ferdinand says to Miranda, — ’Tis fresh morning with me. When you are by at night. I do beseech you — Chiefly that I might set it in tny prayers — What is your name ? Act iii. Scene i. Among the various occasions for the exercise of the duty of intercessory prayer, Shakespeare had learnt, and desired to teach, that it is most especially A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion. To pray for them that hath done scath to us ; Richard III., Act i. Scene 3. i. e. “ for them which despitefully use us ” (Matt. v. 44). And as though he would teach this duty most effectually, he allots to Macbeth the odious task of attempting to decry it, and that in colloquy with one whom he designed to employ for the murdering of Banquo : — Do you find Your patience so predominant in your nature. That you can let this go I Are you so gospel! d To pray for this good matt, and for his issue. Whose heavy hand has bow’d you to the grave. And beggar’d yours for ever ? Macbeth, Act iii. Scene i. And then our prayers must be real, not lip-service merely, and must proceed from a heart sincerely desirous to please God — a point brought before us in “ Hamlet,” where the wicked king, after kneeling and attempting to pray, rises with the confession — My words fly up, my thoughts remain below ; Words without thotcghts never to heaven go. Act iii. Scene 3. And, again, in “ Measure for Measure,” the duplicity is exposed, of professing to offer up prayer while the heart is bent upon yielding to temptation, in the person of the licentious Deputy : — When I would pray and think, I think and pray To several subjects ! Heaven hath my empty words. Whilst my intention, hearing not my tongue. Anchors on Isabel. Act ii. Scene 4. It goes to make us feel assured that Shakespeare’s marriage, though formed at such an early age and to one eight years his senior, did not result unhappily. Doubtless it assisted to give him, when he was still young, his deep insight into female character ; and the draught of his female personages, on the whole, would rather lead us to suppose, that as he had been prepossessed in favour of the gentler sex, so the ex- perience which he afterwards enjoyed tended to con- firm the first good impression. The views which he has expressed of the conjugal union do him honour ; and it is only fair to conclude that though he married early, he did not do so unadvisedly, or without a due regard to the sacredness of the tie, which, it is certain, he had learnt in his maturer years to regard in its proper light. Thus, in “Twelfth Night,” the priest describes the marriage of Sebastian and Olivia as A contract of eternal bond of love. Confirm’d by mutual joinder of your hands. Attested by the holy close of lips. Strengthen’d by the interchangcment of your rings, And all the ceremony of this compact. Seal’d in my function. Act V. Scene i. Jacques, in “As You Like It,” furnishes us with a protest, delivered according to his own quaint humour, against the unholy practice of a mere secular contract between man and wife : — Will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush, like a beggar ? Get you to church and have a good priest, Life of Shakespeare. 104 that can tell you what marriage is / This fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot ; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and, like green timber, warp, warp. Act iii. Scene 3. In “ King Henry V.,” Isabel, Queen of France, is made to say, at the marriage of the King with her daughter Katherine : — God, the best Maker of all marriages. Combine your hearts in one. Act V. Scene 2. Nor are the words that follow less worthy of the subject and the occasion, though she who uttered them proved untrue : — I have forgot my Father, I know no touch of consanguinity. No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me As the sweet Troilus. Troilus and Cressida, Act iv. Scene 2. The prohibition in Leviticus xviii. 6, “ None of you shall approach (in marriage) to any that is near of kin to him,” is brought out by Beatrice, in “ Much Ado about Nothing,” where she playfully declares her resolution to remain a spinster : — No, uncle ; I’ll none ; Adam’s sons are my brethren, and truly I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. — Act ii. Scene i. The dialogue between the Provost and Clown in “ Measure for Measure ” would never have been written, had not the passage in St. Paul to the Ephe- sians V. 23 : — Prov. Come hither, sirrah, can you cut off a man’s head ? Clown. If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can ; but if he be a married man, he is his wife's head, and I can never cut off a woman’s head. — Act iv. Scene 2. But there is a speech in which it would seem that the great poet set himself to draw out at length all that the Scripture teaches of the duty of wives towards their husbands, with such additional touches to the picture as his own imagination — or the contrast (let us hope) afforded by his wife’s good qualities — would readily suggest. Katharine having ceased to be a shrew under the discipline of Petruchio, gives the following good advice to one who was married, but had not yet learned to be obedient to her husband : — Kath. Fye, fye ! unknit that threat’ning unkind brow ; And dart not scornful glances from those eyes. To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor : It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads ; Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds ; And in no sense is meet, or amiable. A woman moved is like a fountain troubled. Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty ; And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper. Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that cares for thee. And for thy maintenance : commits his body To painful labour, both by sea and land ; To watch the night in storms, the day in cold. Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe ; And craves no other tribute at thy hands, But love, fair looks, and true obedience ; — Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince. Even such, a woman oweth to her husband : And, when she’s froward, peevish, sullen, sour. And not obedient to his honest will. What is she, but a foul contending rebel. And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? — I am ashamed, that women are so simple To offer war, where they should kneel for peace ; Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway. When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth. Unapt to toil and trouble in the world ; But that our soft conditions, and our hearts. Should well agree with our external parts 1 Ta 7 )iing of the Shrew, Act v. Scene 2. Some fair readers will think, perhaps, that this lady has run on much too fast, and much too far — not unintentionally, probably, on the poet’s part, in order to show how the characteristic weapon of the sex may be turned against themselves. It is well, therefore, to pass on to a scene in which another Katherine will show, in much fewer words, and as exemplified in her own person, what is the perfect character of a good wife, and that, too, while her loving lord must unhap- pily be pronounced “ the graceless traitor — Q. Kath. Have I lived thus long — (let me speak myself. Since virtue finds no friends,) — a wife, a true one I A woman (I dare say, without vain glory,) Never yet branded with suspicion ? Have I with all my full affections Still met the king ? loved him next heaven ? obey’d him I Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him ? Almost forgot my prayers to content him ? And am I thus rewarded ? ’tis not well, lords. Bring me a constant woman to her husband. One that ne’er dream’d a joy beyond his pleasure ; And to that woman when she has done most. Yet will I add an honour, — a great patience. King Henry VIII., Act iii. Scene i. The duty of children towards parents. How pathetically is this lesson read to Coriolanus by his mother Volumnia ; — Say my request unjust. And spurn me back ; but if it be not so. Thou art not honest ; and the gods will plague thee That thou restrain’st from me the duty, which To a mother’s part belongs. Coriolanus, Act v. Scene 3. And how forcibly is Goneril admonished by the Duke of Albany, that no good can be expected either from or by an undutiful child ; — O Goneril! You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face. I fear your disposition ; That nature, which contenms its origiti. Cannot be border'd certain in itself: She that herself will sliver or disbranch From her material sa.'p, perforce must wither. And come to deadly use. King Lear, Act iv. Scene 2. But it is Lear himself who is employed, as we Shakespeare s Bible Lore. might expect, to place the deformity and misery of filial ingratitude in the strongest light : — Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous, when thou show’st thee in a child Than the sea monster I How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child. King Lear, Act i. Scene 4. There is good reason to believe that in using this strong language, Shakespeare wrote not only as he felt, but as he was justified in speaking, by his own dutiful behaviour towards his parents. On the other hand, no less forcibly and pathetically does he teach us, we may doubtless say from his own feelings, the affection which parents cherish, or ought to cherish, towards their offspring, in the complaint of Lady Macduff, and in the rebuke which Clifford administers to King Henry VI. : — Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside. To whom do lions cast their gentle looks ? Not to the beast that would usurp their den. Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick .? Not his, that spoils her young before her face. Who ’scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting Not he, that sets his foot upon her back. The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on ; And doves will peck, in safeguard of their brood. Ambitious York did level at thy crown. Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows : He, but a duke, would have his son a king. And raise his issue, like a loving sire. King Henry VI., Third Part, Act ii. Scene 2. A rebuke which, whether just or no, elicited from the King in reply the noble sentiment, that the good deeds of parents are the best inheritance which they can bequeath to their children : — I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind. Shakespeare’s only son, Hamnet, who died in his twelfth year, was still alive when this was written. Had he survived his father, his would indeed have been a glorious inheritance. His two daughters, however, did both survive him ; and to them, besides the immortal works he left behind, he bequeathed also the effectual blessing of a good Christian, for who can doubt that the pious practice of children receiving benedictions from their parents — a practice common in his days — was observed in his own family .? That such must have been the case is reasonably to be inferred from his frequent mention of it, and from the easy natural manner in which it is introduced. Thus Hamlet says to the unhappy Queen, his mother, whom he had urged to repentance and refor- mation : — Once more, good night ! And, when you are desirous to be bless’d. I’ll blessing beg of yo^i. Act iii. Scene 4 ; that is. I’ll beg your blessing when you yourself are 105 desirous to amend, and so shall be in a condition to receive blessing from God. In the “ Winter’s Tale,” when Perdita kneels to her mother, Hermione, the latter’s blessing is expressed in these terms : — You gods, look down And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter’s head ! Act V. Scene 3. In “King Richard HI.” the wicked Gloster, as he then was, has the hypocrisy to go through the same pious form towards his mother : — Glos. Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy, I did not see your grace : Humbly on 7 ny lenee I crave your blessing. Duch. God bless thee ! and put meekness in thy breast. Love, charity, obedience, and true duty ! Glos. Amen I and make me die a good old man ! That is the butt-end of a mothers blessing j \Aside. I marvel that her grace did leave it out. Act ii. Scene 2. We know that, according to the teaching of Scrip- ture, and especially of St. Paul, charity or love is the sum of all virtue. There is something singularly striking in the way in which Shakespeare carries on the idea and makes kindness the sum not only of all virtue, but of all beauty : — In nature there’s no blemish, but the mind ; None can be called deform’d, but the unkmd: Virtue is beauty. Twelfth Night, Act iii. Scene 4. Bearing in mind the solemn and impressive words of our Lord Himself with reference to the great day of account, “ I was a stranger, and ye took Me in and “ I was a stranger, and ye took Me not in,” Matt. XXV. 35. 43 — who can question their presence to his mind when he made Gorin say, in “As You Like It ” i>— My master is of churlish disposition. And little recks to find the way to heaven By doing deeds of hospitality. Act ii. Scene 4. Shakespeare extends the duty of mercifulness, as the Scriptures also do, to the brute creation, for as we read in Isaiah i. 3 that “ the ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master’s crib,” so Sicinius says in “ Coriolanus,” Act ii. Scene i — Nature teaches beasts to know their friends. And does he not teach us that as idleness is the root of vice, so diligence, together with the desire of self- improvement, is, under the guidance of Divine grace, the best road to virtue 1 Ignorance is the curse of God, Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaveti. King Henry VI., Second Part, Act iv. Scene 7. Let not Laertes’ warning to his sister Ophelia be for- gotten — P io6 Life of Shakespeare. In the morn, and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent : Be wary then. Ha7nlet, Act i. Scene 2. Nor can we doubt of the good fruit which will follow in after-life from such self-control and self-cultivation, for, as lago testifies — ’Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus. Our bodies are our gardens ; to the which our wills are gardeners : so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce ; set hyssop, and weed up thyme ; supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract it with many ; either to have it steril with idleness, or manured with industry ; why the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. — Othello, Act i. Scene 3. And then of justice and honesty. We are told in “ Measure for Measure ” of a certain sanctimonious pirate that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scraped one — the eighth — out of the table. Act i. Scene 2. “ Thou shall not steal" was a command- ment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions. Conduct similar in effect to this pirate’s is still now only too common among lands- men. “To be honest, as this world goes,” says Hamlet to Polonius, “ is to be one man picked out of ten thousand,” Act ii. Scene 2. And in “ Timon of Athens ” it is the remark of one of the three Strangers that “ policy sits above conscience,” Act iii. Scene 2. And yet how often have we been taught, in regard not only to dishonest and unjust but to harsh and ungenerous treatment of others, that “ With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.” Matt. vii. 2. Measure for measure must be answered. King Henry VI., Third Part, Act ii. Scene 6. Like doth quit like, and measure still for measure. Act V. Scene i. In the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus we see the measure which will hereafter be measured again to those who mete as Dives did to the poor, referred to in the Clown’s speech in “All’s Well that Ends Well,” Act iv. Scene 5. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter ; some, that humble themselves, may ; but the 7nany will be too chill and tender; and they’ll be for the flowery way, that leads to the b7'oad gate and the great fire. The parable of the Prodigal Son has a lesson to teach besides the evils and injustice of prodigality — a lesson fit for the pulpit rather than for the stage ; but the stage may seize at least upon that portion of the story which represents how “the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty,” Proverbs xxiii. 21 ; and how “ want shall come as an armed man ” upon the sluggard and the dissolute. Proverbs vi. ii. All things that arc. Are with more spirit chased than enjoyd. How like a younker, or ts. prodigal. The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind ! How like the prodigal doth she return. With over-weather’d ribs, and ragged sails Lean, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet wind ! Mercha7it of Vefiice, Act ii. Scene 6. Against the evils of covetousness he has given no feeble or unfrequent warning. Thus in “ King Henry IV., Part II., he bids us note How quickly nature falls into revolt 'When gold becomes her object. Act iv. Scene 4. And in “ Romeo and J uliet,” when Romeo hands to the apothecary a sum of money in payment for the poison which the latter, though forbidden to sell it under pain of death, had allowed him to purchase, we read as follows : — There is thy gold ; worse poison to men’s souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell : I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none ; Act V. Scene i. i. e. none as compared with that which I have given you. The notion of our stewardship, as to the use or abuse of our time and other talents which God has lent us to occupy and to trade with for His glory, and for the benefit of our fellow-creatures, as well as in respect of our pecuniary means, is one which the Bible leaves us no room to doubt of ; and accordingly he sets it forth with all faithfulness, and with his wonted power : — Thyself and thy belongings Are not thine own so proper, as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, them on thee. Heaven doth with us, as we with torches do; Not light them for themselves : for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch’d. But to fine issues : nor nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence. But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines Herself the glory of a creditor. Both thanks and use. Meas7ire for Measure, Act i. Scene i. His familiarity with the ideas of Scripture warrants the conjecture that the text, “ Behold the kmgdom of God is within you,” Luke xvii. 21, and others of a similar character, may have contributed to the senti- ment which he has put into King Henry’s mouth. It is in the same vein, though carried somewhat further, that the “ honest chronicler,” Griffith, speaks of Cardinal Wolsey after his decease : — His overthrow heap’d happiness upon him, — For then, and not till then, he felt himself. And found the blessedness of being little. King Hen7-y VIII., Act iv. Scene 2. It is in a truthful spirit of Christian philosophy that King Henry V., on the night before the battle of Agincouit, teaches us how our defects, i. e. our wants, our deficiencies in the comforts and conve- niences of life, may “ prove our commodities,” and so suggests an additional motive, not merely for Shakespeare s Bible Lore. 107 contentment in a humble, but for resignation in an adverse lot, when he argues — There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out; For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers, Which is both healthful, and good husbandry : Besides, they are our outward consciences. And preachers to us all ; admonishing. That we should dress us fairly for our end. Thus may we gather honey from the weed. And make a moral of the devil himself. King Henry V., Act iv. Scene i. The proverb that Sorrows never come single is ex- pressed by Shakespeare in various forms. Hamlet says — When sorrows come, they come not single spies. But in battalions. Act iv. Scene 5. And again in the same play — One woe doth tread upon another’s heel. So fast they follow. Act iv. Scene 7. Again in “ Pericles, Prince of Tyre ” : — One sorrow never comes, but brings an heir That may succeed, as his inheritor. Act i. Scene 4. But however thick misfortunes may come upon us, he who thus leads us to expect them has not failed to prescribe, no less plainly and frequently, the remedy which a Christian knows is his duty to apply, when occasion requires, in his own case. When news is brought to King Henry VI. that he is utterly bereft of all that the English crown had posse.ssed in France, his reply is : — Cold news, good Somerset ; but God's will be done. King Henry VI., Second Part, Act iii. Scene i. The words of Richard II. when he is deprived of his power, attest, like those of his Queen, this melan- choly truth, that lofty minds, when harassed by the prospect of annihilation, protracted by torture, are wont to vent their agony in Scripture language, sentences being passionately spoken which almost startle us by their abrupt reference to the obliquity and depravity of human nature. ACT IV. SCENE I. London — Westminster Hall. Re-enter York with King Richard, and Officers hearing the Crown. King Richard. Alack ! why am I sent for to a king, Before I have shook off the regal thoughts Wherewith I reign’d ? I hardly yet have learn’d To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee : — Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me To this submission. Yet I well remember The favours of these men : were they not mine ? Did they not sometime cry. All hail! to 7 ne? So Judas did to Christ: hit He, in twelve. Found truth in all, but one; I, in twelve thousand. None. To Shakespeare Holy Scripture was, what it is to every faithful reader, “ The Word of God unto salva- tion.” In “ King Henry VI.,” Part II., Act ii. Scene 5, he speaks of it as “ God’s Book,” and his habitual regard for its authority may be traced in language such as that he has put into the mouth of lago : — Trifles light as air. Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong proofs of Holy Writ. , Othello, Act iii. Scene 3. At the same time, the age in which he lived would not suffer him to be ignorant how liable men are, from various causes, to pervert God’s word, and give to it a meaning which it was never meant to convey. I n religion What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament_? Mercha:it of Venice, Act iii. Scene 2. Often as he quotes or refers to Holy Scripture, no intentional irreverence is to be found in his works, neither does he ever allow himself to speak of the ministers of religion, as other play-writers have done, with disrespect, still less with derision. That he entertained a just sense of the dignity and responsi- bility of their sacred office, and of the mischief that must ensue whenever it is disgraced by insufficiency or perverted by unfaithfulness ; that he regarded them as ambassadors for Christ, and as intercessors, through Him, in behalf of man, we need no proof beyond the speech of Prince John of Lancaster, in the Second Part of “ King Henry IV.” He is addressing Scroop, Archbishop of York, who had joined the Earl of Northumberland’s party against King Henry, the Prince’s father, in the forest of Gualtree : — My lord of York, it better show’d with you, i When that your flock, assembled by the bell. Encircled you, to hear with reverence Your exposition on the holy text; Than now to see you here an iron man, Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum. Turning the word to sword, and life to death. That man, that sits within a monarch’s heart. And ripens in the sunshine of his favour, Would he abuse the countenance of the king. Alack, what mischiefs might he set abroach. In shadow of such greatness ! With you, lord bishop. It is even so : — Who hath not heard it spoken. How deep you were within the books of God? To us, the speaker in His parliament; To us, the imagined voice of God himself; The very opener, and intelligencer. Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven. And our dull workings : O, who shall believe. But you misuse the reverence of your place ; Employ the countenance and grace of heaven. As a false favourite doth his prince’s name. In deeds dishonourable ? You have taken up, I Under the counterfeited zeal of God, I The subjects of His substitute, my father; I And, both against the peace of heaven and him, I Have here up-swarmed them. Act iv. Scene 2. P 2 io8 Life of Shakespeare. Shakespeare received and held, without misgiving, the doctrine of baptismal grace, which he would have been taught as a member of the Anglican Church. “ We will believe,” says King Henry V. to the Arch- bishop of Canterbury and Bishop of Ely, — That what you speak is in your conscience wash’d As pure as sin with baptism. King Henry V., Act i. Scene 2. And in “ Othello ” the villainous lago is made to represent Desdemona’s influence to be such that it would be easy for her, if she wished — To win the Moor, — were ’t to renounce his baptis 7 n, All seals and symbols of redeemed sin. Act iv. Scene 2. And passing from the first scene of the Christian life to the last, from baptism to burial, we find, in “ Cym- beline,” the rationale of interment with the head towards the east alluded to. The two brothers, Guiderius and Arviragus (Cadwal) are engaged in burying Fidele — Guid. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east : My father hath a reason for’t. Act iv. Scene 2. We cannot conceive of Shakespeare otherwise than as a true Royalist, and we are sure that he loved his country no less than the prophets of old loved their chosen land, from the enthusiastic descriptions he has given of it and its inhabitants : — This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle. This earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise ; This fortress, built by nature for herself. Against infection, and the hand of war ; This happy breed of men, this little world ; This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defenswe to a house. Against the envy of less happier lands ; This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings. Fear’d by their breed, and famous by their birth. Renowned for their deeds as far from home, (For Christian service, and true chivalry,) As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry, Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s son : This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land. Dear for her reputation through the world. Kmg Richard II., Act ii. Scene i. Come the three corners of the world in arms And we shall shock them ! Naught shall make us rue If England to itself do rest but true. Kitig John, Act v. Scene 5. Patriotism was, in Shakespeare, as with every true Englishman, bound up with Protestantism. Al- though the times and scenes of some of his dramas involved frequent reference to Popish corruptions and crimes, he takes every opportunity of uttering the deep-felt hatred to Rome’s tyranny which stirred the country in the reign of Elizabeth. Hence the reply which King John makes to Pandulph, the Pope’s legate : — Thou canst not. Cardinal, devise a name So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous. To charge me to an answer, as the Pope ! Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England Add thus much more, — That no Italian priest Shall tithe or toll in our dominions. * * * * » So tell the Pope ; all reverence set apart. To him and his usurp’d authority. Act iii. Scene i. In the prophetic words attributed to Cranmer, at the birth of Queen Elizabeth, there is another noble burst of patriotism and loyalty : — This royal infant (Heaven still move about her !), Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings. Which time shall bring to ripeness : she shall be (But few now living can behold that goodness) A pattern to all princes living with her, And all that shall succeed ; Sheba was never More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue, Than this pure soul shall be : all princely graces. That mould up such a mighty piece as this is. With all the virtues that attend the good. Shall still be doubled in her : Truth shall nurse her. Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her ; She shall be loved and fear’d ; her own shall bless her ; Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn. And hang their heads with sorrow : good grows with her : In her days every man shall eat in safety. Under his own vine, what he plants ; and sing The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours : God shall be U'ldy k)iown j and those about her From her shall read the perfect ways of honour. And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. No wonder that the King exclaims, “ Thou speakest wonders ! ” Thou hast made me now a man : never, before This happy child, did I get anything. This oracle of comfort has so pleased me. That when I am in heaven I shall desire To see what this child does, and praise my Maker. King Iletuy VIII., Act v. Scene 4. And here let us not forget his bold flight repre- senting the elements and the heavenly bodies taking part, as allies, in the conflict of human warfare. This appears in its simplest form in “ King Henry VI.,” Third Part : — ’Tis better using France, than trusting France ; Let us be back'd with Heaveji, and with the seas. Which God hath given for fence impregnable. And with their helps only defend ourselves. In them and in ourselves our safety lies. Act iv. Scene i. Next, in “Richard II.” we have a development of the idea, suggested probably by the destruction of the host of Sennacherib, recorded in 2 Kings xix. and Isaiah xxxvii. K. Richard. And we are barren, and bereft of friends : Yet know — my master, God omnipotent. 109 Shakespeare s Bible Lore. Is mtcstering in his clouds, on our behalf, Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike Your children yet unborn and unbegot, That lift your vassal hands against my head, And threat the glory of my precious crown. Act iii. Scene 3. Shakespeare in common with all good men had a hatred of war, and holy love of peace — O war, thou son of hell. Whom angry heavens do make their minister ! He that is truly dedicate to war Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself Hath not essentially, but by circumstance. The name of valour. And at his heels. Leash’d in, like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire Crouch for employment. Elsewhere we read, — A peace is of the nature of a conquest, For then both parties nobly are subdued. And neither party loser. Peace and war are contrasted, when the Duke of Burgundy pleads for an end of strife between England and France ; and who can read his marvellous lines here presented and not apply them to France of our own day, having seen as we have so large a portion of her fair territory under the hoof of the war-spoiler I True her rulers brought it on her by their wicked foray on a neighbouring nation, whom they had hoped to dispossess and plunder. Righteous, though melancholy to behold. Reader, dwell on his beauteous pastoral portion of this grand pastoral painting : — Let it not disgrace me If I demand before this royal view. What rub, or what impediment, there is, Why that the naked, poor and mangled Peace, Dear mirse of arts, pletities, a;id joyful births. Should not, in this best garden of the world. Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage ? Alas! she hath from France too long been chased; And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps. Corrupting in its own fertility : Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart,. UnprunM dies; her hedges even-pleach’d. Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair. Put forth disordered twigs ; her fallow leas The darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory. Doth root upon ; while that the coulter rusts That should deracinate such savagery ; The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank Conceives by idleness ; and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs. Losing both beauty and utility : And as our vineyards, fallows, meads, and hedges. Defective in their natures grow up to wildness ; Even so our houses, and ourselves, and children. Have lost, or do not learn, for want of time. The sciences that should become our country; But grow like savages — as soldiers will. That nothing do but meditate on blood — To swearing, and stern looks, diffused attire. And everything that seems unnatural. Which to reduce into our former favour. You are assembled : and my speech entreats That I may know the let why gentle Peace Should not expel these inconveniences. And bless us with her former qualities. King Henry V., Act v. Scene 2. On the other hand, we may safely attribute to him a deep reverence for antiquity ; and we need not doubt that the precept of Solomon, “ My son, fear thou the Lord and the king, and meddle not with them that are given to change,” Prov. xxiv. 21, approved itself thoroughly to his large heart and marvellous understanding. How just is the senti- ment which ascribes to “reverence,” or due regard for subordination, the power that keeps peace and order in the world, to borrow the gloss of Johnson upon the words that follow : — Though mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust, yet Reverence (That .angel of the world) doth make distinction Of place ’tween high and low. Cymbelme, Act iv. Scene 2. The same sentiment, in regard to the value and importance of gradations in human society, is enlarged upon and enforced in “Troilus and Cressida,” most appropriately by Ulysses: — Oh, when degree is shaken. Which is the ladder to all high designs. Then enterprise is sick. How would communities, JiIm Jt, A/, •TV" *7S* TT ^ The primogeniture, and due of birth. Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels. But by Degree stand in authentic place ? Take but Degree away, untune that string. And hark what discord follows ; each thing meets In mere oppugnancy. Act i. Scene 3. Shakespeare’s belief in the immortality of the soul is grandly illustrated in the dialogue between Post- humus and the Jailor in “ Cymbeline and the lesson which it teaches so emphaticalty is the more remarkable because it proceeds out of the mouth of a heathen : — fail. Come, sir, are you ready for death? Posth. Ready long ago I am merrier to die than thou art to live. Jail. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache: but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think, he would change places with his officer ; for, look you, ?,\x,you know not which way you shall go. Posth. Yes, htdeed do I, fellow. Jailor. Your death has eyes in’s head then ; I have not seen him so pictured You must either be directed by some who take upon them to know ; or take upon yourself that which, I am sure, you do not know, or jump the after-enquiry on your own peril ; and how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never rehirn to tell one. Posth. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct thern the way I am going, \>wt such as wink, and will not use them. Act V. Scene 4. The certainty of death, and that, as the Psalmist hath it, the rich man “shall carry nothing away with I lO Life of Shakespeare. him when he dieth, neither shall his pomp follow him,” xlix. 17, are words needing no confirmation ; yet the great Earl of Warwick is well chosen to speak as follows when he comes to die : — Lo, now my glory smear’d in dust and blood ! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had. Even now forsake me, and of all my lands. Is nothing left me but my body’s length ! Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust ? And, live we how we can, yet die we must. King Henry VI., Third Part, Act v. Scene 2. The Lord Talbot, speaking of the death of “ the noble Duke of Bedford,” tells the same truism, with the addition of a melancholy sentiment, to which most of us, sooner or later, will be inclined to respond : — Kings and mightiest potentates must die, For that’s the end of human misery. King Henry VI., First Part, Act iii. Scene 2. We find both the truism and sentiment repeated at greater length in the dirge over Fidele, sung by Guiderius and Arviragus : — Gui. Fear no more the heat o’ the sun. Nor the furious winter rages ; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages : Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Arv. Fear no more the frown o’ the great. Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke ; Care no more to clothe, and eat ; To thee the reed is as the oak; The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Cyjnbeline, Act iv. Scene 2. But these were heathens. In the case of Christians he fails not to introduce a touch of holier consola- tion : — Chief Justice. How doth the king? Warwick. Exceeding well; his cares are now all ended. Chief Justice. I hope not dead ? Warwick. He’s walk’d the way of nature; And to our purposes, he lives no more. King Hetiry IV, Second Part, Act v. .Scene 2. As much as to imply, not however to his own pur- poses, now that his true and immortal life has begun. So, too, in “Winter’s Tale,” Dion says, with reference to the supposed death of Hermione, wife of King Eeontes ; — What were more holy Than to rejoice, the former queen is well. .Act V. Scene i. This happy notion and expression that it is “well” with the departed was doubtless derived from the reply which the good Shunamite gave to the prophet Elisha when he asked her, — I s it well with the child ? Arid she answered. It is well. 2 Kings iv. 26. But in order that it may be really “ well ” with us when we come to die, Shakespeare will also tell us — no man better — what is the one thing needful. And with what a lightning flash of condensed thought and language does he teach the lesson — Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither. Ripeness is all: come on. King Lear, Act v. Scene 2. And what minister of the Gospel ever discoursed more justly of the value of such preparation than does, in Shakespeare’s words. King Henry V., when passing through the camp in disguise, before the battle of Agincourt, he holds discourse with one of the common soldiers of his army .? Every soldier in the wars should do as every sick man in his bed — wash every mote out of his cotiscietice j and dying so, death is to him advantage (“ To die is gain.” Phil. i. 2) : or, not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained. And in him that escapes, it were not sin to think, that making God so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness, and to teach others how they should prepare. Act iv. Scene 2. And if we wish to see an example of this truth in the end of one haughty and ambitious, who was neither ripe nor ready, what sermon is to be compared ' to Shakespeare’s representation of the death of Cardi- nal Beaufort, in the Second Part of “ King Henry VI.,” its effect being heightened by the charity of the King j in declining to judge, and in proposing to turn it to j the edification of the survivors. Dr. Johnson has truly said of the scene, the beauties are such that the superficial reader cannot miss them, and the profound can imagine nothing beyond them. London. Cardinat, Beaufort’s Bedchamber. E^iter King Henry, Salisbury, Warwick, and Others. The Cardinal in bed ; Attendants with him. K. Hen. How fares my lord ? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign. Car. If thou be’st death. I’ll give thee England’s treasure. Enough to purchase such another island. So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. K. Hen. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life. When death’s approach is seen so terrible ! War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee. Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will. Died he not in his bed ? where should he die ? Can I make men live, whe’r they will or no ? — O ! torture me no more, I will confess. — Alive again ? then show me where he is ; I’ll give a thousand pound to look upon him. — He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. — Comb down his hair ; look ! look ! it stands upright. Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul ! — Give me some drink ; and bid the apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. K. Hen. O Thou eternal Mover of the heavens. Look with a gentle eye upon this wTetch ! O, beat away the busy meddling fiend, That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul. And from his bosom purge this black despair ! War. See, how the pangs of death do make him grin. Sal. Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably. K. Hen. Peace to his soul, if God’s good pleasure be ! j Lord cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss. 1 1 1 Shakespeare s Bible Lore. Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. — He dies, and makes no sign ; O God, forgive him 1 War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. K. Hen. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.— Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close ; And let us all to meditation. [Exeunt. Act iii. Scene 3. With this harrowing picture it is relief to compare the death-bed of another cardinal, also the victim of inordinate ambition, but partly, too, of the fickleness of royal favour. Cardinal Wolsey. It is Queen Katherine who asks, — Kath. Pr’ythee, good Griffith, tell me how he died ; If well, he stepp’d before me, happily. For my example. Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam : F or after the stout Earl N orthumberland Arrested him at York, and brought him forward , (As a man sorely tainted,) to his answer. He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill, He could not sit his mule. Kath. Alas, poor man ! Grif. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, Lodged in the abbey ; where the reverend abbot. With all his convent, honourably received him ; To whom he gave these words, — O father abbot. An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye j Give him a little earth for charity / So went to bed : where eagerly his sickness Pursued him still ; and, three nights after this. About the hour of eight, (which he himself Foretold should be his last,) full of repentance. Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows. He gave his honours to the world again. His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. Kath. So may he rest ; his faults lie gently on him ! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him. And yet with charity, — He was a man Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking Himself with princes ; one, that by suggestion Ty’d all the kingdom : simony was fair play ; His own opinion was his law : P the presence He would say untruths ; and be ever double, Both in his words and meaning : He was never. But where he meant to ruin, pitiful ; His promises were, as he then was, mighty ; But his performance, as he is now, nothing. Of his own body he was ill, and gave The clergy ill example. Grif. Noble madam. Men’s evil manners live in brass ; their virtues We write in water. May it please your highness To hear me speak his good now ? Kath. Yes, good Griffith ; I were malicious else. Grif. This cardinal. Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashion’d to much honour from his cradle. He was a scholar, and a ripe, and good one ; Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading : Lofty, and sour, to them that loved him not ; But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting, (Which was a sin,) yet in bestowing, madam. He was most princely : Ever witness for him Those twins of learning, that he raised in you, Ipswich, and Oxford ! one of which fell with him. Unwilling to outlive the good that did it ; The other, though unfinish’d, yet so famous. So excellent in art, and still so rising. That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heap’d happiness upon him ; For then, and not till then, he felt himself. And found the blessedness of being little : And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he die 4 , fearing God. King Henry VIII., Act iv. Scene 2. And let us not forget that it is our poet who has made one of our English kings expire with these words upon his lips : — Mount, mount, my soul ! thy seat is up on high ; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. King Richard II., Act v. Scene 5. How clearly, and with the plainest reference to Scripture, does Portia’s well-known speech in “The Merchant of Venice ” exhibit the Divine attributes of Mercy and forgiveness : — For. Do you confess the bond ? Ant. I do. For. Then must the Jew be merciful. Shy. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. For. The quality of mercy is not strain’d ; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless’d ; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown ; His scepter shows the force of temporal power. The attribute to awe and majesty. Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; But mercy is above this scepter’d sway. It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. It is an attribute to God himself ; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s, When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much. To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there. Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law. The penalty and forfeit of my bond. Act iv. Scene i. And then Redemption ! How does Clarence speak of his Christian hope to the men who had been sent to murder him in the Tower — I charge you, as you hope to have redemption, By Christ's dear blood, shed for our grievous sins, That you depart, and lay no hands on me. King’Richard III., Act i. Scene 4. And again, our blessed Lord is spoken of, in “ King Richard II.,” as — The world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son. Act iv. Scene i. And again, in “ King Henry VI.,” Second Part, as — That dread King that took our state upon Him, To free us from His Father's wrathftil curse. Act iii. Scene 2. I 12 Life of Shakespeare. And in “ King Henry IV.,” First Part, Palestine is described as — Those holy fields. Over whose acres walk’d those blessed feet. Which fourteen hundred years ago were naiPd For our advantage on the bitter cross. Act. i. Scene i. Even in the midst of the fanciful play of genius, any allusion to that holy life brings up sweet and solemn thought : — Some say, that ever ’gainst that season comes. Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated. The bird of dawning singeth all night long ; And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow’d and so gracious is the time. HafnletyAci i. Scene i. Never were the workings of a guilty conscience, and the struggle of the soul with convictions, por- trayed with more power than in the well-known soliloquy of the King, in “ Hamlet — O, my offence is rank ; it smells to heaven ; It hath the primal eldest curse upon it, A brother’s murder ! Pray can I not. Though inclination be as sharp as will : My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent ; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin. And both neglect. What if this cursM hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood ? Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow.^ Whereto serves mercy, But to confront the visage of offence ? And what’s in prayer, but this twofold force : To be forestall^, ere we come to fall. Or pardon’d, being down ? Then I’ll look up : My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn ? Forgive me my foul murder ? That cannot be ; since I am still possess’d Of those effects for which I did the murder. My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May 07ie be pardon'd and retain the offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice ; And oft ’tis seen, the wicked prize itself Buys out the law. But ’tis not so above : There is no shuffling ; there the action lies In his true nature ; and we ourselves compell’d. Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults. To give in evidence. What then ? what rests ? Try what repentance can : what can it not ? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent ? O wretched state ! O bosom black as death ! O lim^d soul, that, struggling to be free. Art more engaged ! Help, angels ! make assay ! Bow, stubborn knees : and, hearts with strings of steel. Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe ! All may be well. * * * * My words fly up, my thoughts remain below : Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go. Act iii. Scene 4. It is remarkable, too, how fully he recognized the glorious truth that redemption is no partial gift ; that as the disease which it was mercifully designed to cure is universal, so the application of the remedy is universal also. This is exemplified in “ Measure for Measure,” where the virtuous Isabella thus speaks to Angelo, the wicked lord deputy, in the Duke’s absence : — Alas ! Alas ! Why all the souls that were, were forfeit once ; And He that might the vantage best have took. Found out the remedy. How would you be. If He, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are ? O think on that. And mercy then will breathe within your lips. Like 7uati 7iew made. Act ii. Scene 2. The well-known passage in “As You Like It,” in which “ the world ” is described as a stage, was derived from the imagination acting upon his own experience as a player ; but the elaborate and melancholy picture of life, which we read in “ Measure for Measure,” is no less certainly indebted to the Bible for more than one touch of its colouring. The Duke, disguised as a friar, visits Claudio in prison, when condemned to death, and thus addresses him : — Reason thus with life, — If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep : a breath thou art, (Servile to all the skiey influences,) That dost this habitation, where thou keep’st. Hourly afflict : merely, thou art death’s fool ; For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun. And yet run’st toward him still : Thou art not noble ; For all the accommodations that thou beaFst. Are nursed by baseness : Thou art by no means valiant ; For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep. And that thou oft provok’st ; yet grossly fear’st Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself ; For thou exist’st on many a thousand grains That issue out of dust ; Happy thou art not : For what thou hast not, still thou striv’st to get ; And what thou hast, forget’st : Thou art not certain : For thy complexion shifts to strange effects. After the moon : If thou art rich, thou art poor ; For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows. Thou beaFst thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee : Friend hast thou none : For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire. The mere effusion of thy proper loins. Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum. For ending thee no sooner : Thou hast nor youth, nor age ; But, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep. Dreaming on both. Act iii. Scene i. Shakespeare’s teachings are marked in regard to repentance, defining clearly that it cannot be effectual — in other words, that there can be no forgiveness — without confession, and without amendment, testified by restitution and satisfaction (to man), according to the uttermost of our power, for all injuries and wrongs that we have done. In regard to amendment and satisfaction, nothing could be fuller, or better for the purpose, than the well-known speech of the King, in “ Hamlet,” Act iii. sc. 4 ; — Shakespeare. What if this cursM hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood ? Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow ? Whereto serves mercy, But to confront the visage of offence ? And what’s in prayer, but this two-fold force, — To be forestallM, ere we come to fall. Or pardon’d, being down ? Then I’ll look up ; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn ? Forgive me my foul murder ! — That cannot be ; since I am still possess’d Of those effects for which I did the murder. My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardon’d and retain the offence In the corrupted currents of this world. Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice : And oft ’tis seen, the wicked prize itself Buys out the law : But ’tis not so above : There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature ; and we ourselves compell’d. Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then ? what rests ? Try what repentance can : What can it not ? Yet what can it, when one ca 7 i)iot repent f That is, as Johnson has very properly explained it, “ What can repentance do for a man that cannot be penitent, for a man who has only part of penitence — distress of conscience — without the other part, resolu- tion of amendment.^” He has been equally explicit in teaching the further lesson, that we must be “ready to forgive others who have offended us, as we would have forgiveness of our offences at God’s hand,” as shown in the speech of Portia in the “Merchant of Venice,” and implied in the answer of Bolingbroke to the Duchess of York, interceding for the pardon of her son : — Bol. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me. Diich. O happy ’vantage of a kneeling knee ! Richard II. , Act v. Scene 3. Also in the words of the Duke of Buckingham, when he was being led to execution, addressing Sir Thomas Lovell : — I as free forgive you. As I would be forgiven. King Hetiry VIII., Act ii. Scene i. And hence it ought to follow, as we read in the “ Two Gentlemen of Verona,” — Who by repentance is not satisfied Is not of heaven, nor earth; for these are pleased ; By petiitence the Eternals wrath's appeased. Act V. Scene 4. Not, however, for its own sake. This is beautifully set forth in the speech of King Henry V. before the battle of Agincourt : — K. Hen. O God of battles ! steel my soldier’s hearts ! Possess them not with fear ; take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them ! — Not to-day, O Lord, 0 not to-day, think not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown ! 1 Richard’s body have interr’d new ; Bible Lore. 1 1 3 And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears. Than from it issued forced drops of blood, Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay. Who twice a day their wither’d hands hold up Toward heaven, to pardon blood ; and I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do : Though all that 1 can do, is itothing worth ; Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardoti. King Henry V., Act iv. Scene i. “ Put not your trust in princes, nor in any child of man,” is a Scriptural precept which Shakespeare has not been slow to echo ; nor has he failed to do full justice to the contrast with which the Scriptures so often accompany that precept, viz. the duty and the satisfaction of placing our trust in God. The devoted, but not over honest Nurse in “ Romeo and Juliet” can tell her mistress There’s no trust. No faith, no honesty in men ; all perjured, All forsworn, all nought, all dissemblers. Act iii. Scene 2. And yet we are so senseless, as the Lord Hastings testifies in “King Richard HI.,” to make more account of man’s favour, which is so worthless, than of the favour of God, which is above all price : — O momentary grace of mortal men Which we more hunt for than the grace of God ! Who builds his hopes in air, of your fair looks, Lives like a drutiken sailor 07 i a mast. Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep. Act iii. Scene 4. Let us bear in mind, with King Henry V., the blessedness of being able to place confidence where alone it ought to be placed, when, with reference to the overwhelming numbers of the French, before the battle of Agincourt, he said to the Duke of Gloster — We are in God’s hands, brother, not in theirs. And he felt it sinful to boast of anything he could do by his own power : — Forgive me, God, That I do brag thus ! This your air of France Hath blown that vice in me ; I must repent. Go, therefore, tell thy master — He is speaking to Montjoy, the French herald — ■ Here I am. My ransom is, this frail and worthless trunk ; My army, but a weak and sickly guard ; Yet God before (i. e. being our guide), tell him we will come on. Though F ranee himself, and such another neighbour. Stand in our way. King Henry V., Act iii. Scene 6. There are occasions in which our poet desired especially to recommend the great duty of thankful- ne.ss towards God, and especially when a victory has Q Life of Shakespeare. 114 been gained. Not even David himself has exhibited more fervent gratitude to the Divine Author of his victories than our pious sovereign after the defeat of the French in the battle of Agincourt. Thus, when Mountjoy first announced to the King the glorious intelligence, “ The day is yours,” his first exclamation is a “ Non nobis, Domine,” in these words, — Praised be God, and not our strength, for it ! King Henry V., Act iv. Scene 7. And soon after, when the English Herald came and delivered more fully the particulars of the victory, more fully rose also from the royal lips the ascription of praise and thanksgiving : — O ! God, Thy arm was here And not to us, but to Thy arm alone Ascribe we all. When, without stratagem. But in plain shock, and even play of battle, Was ever known so great and little loss. On one part and on the other ? Take it, God, For it is o?ily Thine. Exeter. ’Tis wonderful ! K. Hen. Come, go we in procession to the village : And be it death proclaimed through our host, To boast of this, or take that praise from God, Which is His only. Ibid., Act iv. Scene 8. And how he himself behaved, in strict accordance with his own command, is reported by the Chorus at the opening of the next and concluding Act. The description refers to his return and entry into London : — Where that his lords desire him to have borne His bruised helmet, and his bended sword, Before him through the city, he forbids it. Being free from vainness, and self-glorious pride. Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent. Quite fro 7 H himself, to God. If there be one redeeming feature in the spirit of the old classical mythology, it is the disposition which it tended to foster, of habitual thankfulness to a Supreme Being. If it did not go so far as to teach men to say grace at meals, it taught what was in effect the same, not to taste the cup till a libation had been poured to Jove, and not to put the sickle to the corn till sacred songs had been sung to Ceres. The play of “ Coriolanus ” shows Shakespeare’s great familiarity with the practice of saying grace both before and after meals. The scene is a camp at a small distance from Rome. Enter Aufidius, General of the Volscians, and his Lieutetiant. Aufid. Do they still fly to the Roman (i. e. to Corio- lanus.) Lieut. I do not know what witchcraft’s in him ; but Your soldiers use him as the Grace ^fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are darken’d in this action, sir. Even by your own. Act iv. Scene 7. Passing by the proper resolution of Sir Hugh Ev'ans, in the “Merry Wives of Windsor,” Act i. Scene i, | " I will not be absence at the grace,” we turn to the “ Merchant of Venice,” and there find our poet sati- rizing the Puritanism which had begun to prevail in his own age through Gratiano. Bassanio, whom he had proposed to accompany to Belmont, the house of Portia, consented ; but, at the same time, required of him to “ allay his skipping spirit with some cold drops of modesty — Grat. Signior Bassanio, hear me : If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect .... Wear prayer books in my pocket ; look demurely. Nay more, while grace is saying, hood 7 nine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh and say. Amen j Use all the observance of civility. Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more. Act ii. Scene 3. We may infer that, in Shakespeare’s time, the master of the house sometimes devolved the duty of saying grace upon his wife. In the “ Taming of tbe Shrew,” Petruchio says to Katharina, when the supper is brought in : — Come, Kate, sit down ; I know you have a stomach ; Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall If Act iv. Scene i. The advocate of temperance will find many eloquent appeals and arguments in Shakespeare. It is to the custom of drinking and revelling that Hamlet alludes, when he says, — It is a custom More honour’d in the breach than the observance. Hamlet, Act i. Scene 4. When the villain lago presses Cassio to drink, he replies, — Not to-night, good lago ; I have very' poor and unhappy brains for drinking- I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment. The English, as a people, are reproached for their excess in drinking. When lago sings a bacchanalian song, and is asked where he learned it, he says, — I learned it in England ; where, indeed, they are most potent in potting : your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander, are nothing to your English. When Cassio has come to his senses, he says, — Drunk ! and speak parrot, and squabble, swagger, swear ! and discourse fustian with one’s own shadow ! O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee Devil ! . . . O that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains ! that we should, with joy, revel, pleasance, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts ! To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast ! O, strange ! Ever>' inordinate cup is unblessed, and the ingredient a devil ! Othello, Act. ii. Scene 3. This is only one of many places where temperance' is praised. Apemantus says to Timon, of his wines, and the custom of drinking healths, — Shakespeare s Bible Lore. Those healths will make thee and thy state look ill : Here’s that which is too weak to be a sinner, Honest water, which ne’er left 7 nan V the Jtih-e. Tinton of Athens, Act i. Scene 2. In “As You Like It,” the old servant says to his young master, — Though I look old, yet am I strong and lusty : For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ; Nor did not with unblushing forehead woo The means of weakness and debility ; Therefore my age is as a lusty winter. Frosty, but kindly. Act ii. Scene 3. Even his Fools are made by Shakespeare to teach temperance. Olivia asks, “ What’s a drunken man like, fool 1" And the Clown replies, “Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman. One draught above heat makes him a fool, the second a madman, and a third drowns him.” The stories of Jacob and Esau, — of Joseph and his brethren, — many passages in the life of David, and the Parable of the Prodigal, portray those passions and affections emphatically styled in Scripture “yearnings of the bowels,” much after the manner in which Shakespeare is found to exhibit them. They belong alike to every age and every nation. The very images of Scripture are sometimes the images of Shakespeare. Nothing is more corhmon in the former than the comparison of good to light, and evil to dark- ness. Bad men hate the light, lest their evil deeds shotdd be reproved. How tremendously is this feeling displayed by Lady Macbeth ! Come, thick night. And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell ! That my keen knife see not the wound it makes ; Nor Heav'n peep through the bla^iket of the dark. To cry. Hold, hold ! Macbeth, Act i. Scene 5. Light, to Shakespeare, suggests the idea of good- ness : — How far that little candle throws his beams ! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. Merchant of Venice, Act v. Scene i. This is the Scriptural, not the common comparison, the latter likens darkness to sorrow. Ruskin, in his “Modern Painters” (vol. iv.), notices that “Shake- speare almost always implies a total difference in nature between one human being and another ; one being from the birth pure and affectionate, another base and cruel; and he displays each in its sphere as having the nature of the dove, wolf, or lion, never much implying the government or change of nature by any external principle, It is very remarkable that Scripture, which teaches us more by things than by words, though it recognizes a change of disposition through force of an external principle, does yet not ooly paint men as of different natures, but describes those natures under the forms of different kinds of animals. Thus the good and the bad are generally- typified by the figure of ‘ sheep ’ and of ‘ goats.’ Our Saviour calls the Pharisees a ‘ generation of vipers! He Himself is described as ‘ The Lamb of God.’ The nations of the heathen about to be con- verted to the Gospel are described by the Prophet as those of wild beasts. ‘ The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together.’ The difference between Ruth and Orpah was simply a difference in degree of dutiful affection. “ ‘ Orpah kissed her mother-in-law, but Ruth clave unto her,’ passionately beseeching leave to follow her fortunes, in the sweetest words which the power of language could supply, But there are parallels of individual character. Lady Macbeth, for instance, the most terrible of Shakespeare’s heroines, has her perfect counterpart in Jezebel. The very mind and being of the latter seem to be infused into, and to animate the former. The same may be said with respect to Ahab and Macbeth, till the death of Duncan ; the latter then resembles Saul, delivered up to the spirit of evil. It was Jezebel who bestowed upon Ahab the vineyard, as it was Lady Macbeth who gave her husband the kingdom. Both these women began by taunting their husbands into acquiesence with their measures, but both resolve to act for them- selves. Thus Jezebel and Lady Macbeth went on spurring their husbands in their guilty career, till the two latter expiated their crimes upon the field of battle, whilst they thenjselves came to an equally untimely end. “ Look at Hamlet’s conduct after he had received instructions from the Ghost of his father ; a quotation from Scripture accounts for it. The deaths of Polo- nius and the King may be said to be accidental effects ; Hamlet having been roused to the committal of them, by circumstances which hurried him from the motive that should have led to the king’s death. Hamlet speaks of being ‘ prompted to his revenge by heaven and hell by heaven, which considered life forfeited by him who had committed murder, and had merely fixed on Hamlet as the person who should execute this righteous doom ; by hell, inasmuch as Hamlet’s worst feelings urged him to commit the act. It is clear that the Parable of Dives and Lazarus had made particular impression on Shakespeare’s mind, for it is mentioned several times in the play of ‘ Henry IV.’ by the same character.” Ruskin further says, — “ Shakespeare always leans on the force of fate as it urges the final evil, and dwells with infinite bitterness on the power of the wicked, and the infinitude of results dependent seemingly on little things. A fool brings the last piece of news from Verona, and the dearest lives of its noble houses are lost ; they might have been Q 2 Life of Shakespeare. 1 16 saved, if the Sacristan had not stumbled as he walked. Othello mislays his handkerchief, and there remains nothing for him but death. Hamlet gets hold of the wrong foil, and the rest is silence. Edmund’s runner is a moment too late at the prison, and the feather will not move at Cordelia’s lips. Salisbury is a moment too late at the Tower, and Arthur lies on the stones dead. Goneril and lago have, on the whole, in this world, Shakespeare sees, much of their own way, though they come to a bad end. It is a pin that Death pierces the King’s fortress wall with ; and carelessness and folly sit, sceptred and dreadful, side by side with the pin-armed skeleton.” If it be thus in Shakespeare and in the world, it is assuredly the same in the Bible. Jezebel and Judas have it all their own way, though they come to a bad end. In that Sacred Book, from beginning to end, good men lament that the wicked “ flourish ” here “ like a green bay-tree.” That “ they come not into peril like other folk, neither are in trouble like other men.” To witness this was the sorest trial of “ the man after God’s own heart,” and has been one of the severest trials of the faithful in all ages of the Church. The swelling tide of appreciation of Shakespeare’s mightiness is flowing on with continually gaining force, and so it must continue. “ The Bible and Shakespeare,” said one of the best and most esteemed prelates that ever sat upon the English bench — Dr. John Sharp, in the reign of Queen Anne — “the Bible and Shakespeare have made me Archbishop of York.” The Shakespeare of Greek comedy — Aristophanes — I is well known to have been a favourite author of the ! most celebrated preacher of the ancient Church, St. John Chrysostom, sometime Patriarch of Con- stantinople. SHAKESPEARE’S KNOWLEDGE OF HORTICULTURE, FLOWERS, INSECTS, BIRDS, AND RURAL LIFE. • “ In nature there’s no blemish, but the mind .” — Twelfth Night, Act iii. Scene 4. HAKESPEARE’S knowledge of horticul- ture, flowers, insects, birds, and rural life, is evidenced in every product of his marvellously fertile brain. Prominent among the writers who have laboured excellently in pointing out his intimacy with gardening processes, and love of Nature and her operations, is Roach Smith, of Strood, an earnest Shakespearian of the true stamp, realizing in his great ideal an observer of God’s outer world, far in advance of even our pre- sent day. Commencing with gardening, we need only refer to the fourth scene of the third act in “ King Richard II.,” which is laid at Langley, in the Duke of York’s garden. The Queen of the wasteful and thoughtless King has already a presentiment of impending calamities ; and, as the Gardeners approach, she and her ladies secrete themselves, the Queen saying, — Let’s step into the shadow of these trees : My wretchedness unto a row of pins They’ll talk of state ; for every one doth so Against a change. Woe is forerun with woe. The head gardener and his men hold converse thus : — Gardener. Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, Which, like unruly children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight : Give some supportance to the bending twigs. Go thou, and, like an executioner, Cut off the heads of too fast-growing sprays, That look too lofty in our commonwealth : All must be even in our government. You thus employ’d, I will go root away The noisome weeds, that without profit suck The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers. Servant. Why should we, in the compass of a pale. Keep law, and form, and due proportion ? Showing, as in a model, our firm estate. When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, Is full of weeds; her fairest flowers choked up. Her fruit-trees all unpruned, her hedges ruin’d, Her knots disorder’d, and her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars? Gardener. Hold thy peace : — He that hath suffer’d this disordered spring Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf ; The weeds that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter. That seem’d in eating him to hold him up. Are pluck’d up, root and all, by Bolingbroke ; I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green. Servants. What, are they dead? Gardener. They are ; and Bolingbroke Hath seized the wasteful king. — Oh ! what pity is it That he hath not so trimm’d and dress’d his land. As we this garden ! We, at time of year. Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees. Lest, being over-proud with sap and blood. With too much riches it confound itself : Had he done so to great and growing men, They might have lived to bear, and he to taste Their fruits of duty. All superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughs may live : Had he done so, himself had borne the crown. Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down. Here the pruning of fruit-trees is described with the decision and confidence of the most experienced gardener ; and no one could possibly have so written who had not mastered the principles of scientific management of fruit-trees, on which their fertility depends. While one of the assistants is directed to bind up to the trellis the fruit-laden branches of the apricots, another is ordered to lop the boughs, while the master himself clears the soil of weeds. The attendant points with pride to the garden as a model of the estate ; and such a well-cultivated garden is, for the principles of agriculture and horticulture are identical ; and he aptly compares, with circumstantial detail, the disorders of a badly-governed kingdom to a neglected garden. The gardener continues : — at the proper season, he says, we wound the bark of our trees lest they become unproductive by excessive growth. Upon this wounding of the bark depends the productiveness of fruit-trees. The ancients, in order to check the growth of the pear-tree and induce it to bear, drove a wedge of wood up the lower part of the stem at its junction with the roots ; and by root-pruning, moving, and constantly cutting the boughs, fruit-trees must be continually lacerated to decrease the growth of unbearing wood, and encourage the formation of fruit buds. There are numerous passages which are full of similes all taken from the ii8 Life of Shakespeare. garden, and indicating the fatal results of neglect of culture ; as for instance : — Thou art an elm, my husband, I, a vine ; Whose weakness married to thy stronger state, Makes me with thy strength to communicate. If aught possess me from thee, it is dross, ] Usurping iv)', briar, or idle moss; j Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion. Comedy of Errors, Act ii. Scene 4. 1 If you can look into the seeds of time, j And say which seed will grow and which will not. Macbeth, Act i. Scene 3. I have began to plant thee, and will labour To make thee full of growing. Idem, Act i. Scene 4. ' In “ Hamlet,” Denmark, which had submitted to the rule of a drunken usurper and a murderer, is com- j pared to a neglected garden : — j ’Tis an unweeded garden, , That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in nature, j Possess it merely ! | Act 1. Scene 2. j A happier simile could not have been found ; but it I could only have been chosen by one who knew the utter wretchedness of an unweeded garden, and the I labour required to free it from weeds, not only from those in actual growth, but also from the constant succession in the long seeded ground of fresh crops of weeds, the vitality of which is well expressed in the popular adage — One year’s seeding; Ten years’ weeding. The simile could hardly have presented itself to the mind of any other man than a gardener, or one who had seen and felt the evils of a mismanaged garden. Weeds spring naturally from neglect ; but indis- creet manuring propels their growth ; and Hamlet urges his mother, when exhorting her to repentance, not to “ lay the compost on the weeds to make them ranker.” Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds. King Henry IV, Part II. Act iv. Scene 4. This bane of good husbandry is continually used as a simile ; for instance, in “ Love’s Labour’s Lost,” Act i. Scene i : — He weeds the com, and still lets grow the weeding. And in the same play : — Sow’d cockle, reap’d no corn. Act iv. Scene 3. Twice treble shame in Angelo, To weed my vice and let his grow! Measure for Measure, Act iii. Scene 2. In " Macbeth,” Act. iv. Scene 3 : — This avarice Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root. Than summer-seeding lust. O, then we bring forth weeds, When our quick winds be still; and our ills told us Is as our earing. Antony and Cleopatra, Act i. Scene 2. The sentiment of the last is much the same as “Sweet are the uses of adversity,” &c., in “As You Like It.” Now ’tis the spring; and weeds are shallow- rooted ; Suffer them now, and they’ll o’ergrow the garden, And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. King He 7 iry VI, Part II. Act iii. Scene i. He’s a rank weed, Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. King Henry VIII., Act v. Scene i. Small herbs have grace ; great weeds do grow apace. Idc 7 n, Scene 4. The seeded pride That hath to this maturity blown up In rank Achilles, must or now be cropp’d Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil To overbulk us all. Troilus and Cressida, Act i. Scene 3. The meaning of these similes is obvious to all ; but the fulness and propriety of their application can only be estimated by those who practically have experienced the evil of allowing weeds to seed. The garden furnishes lago with admirable illus- trations for the specious arguments he uses to excite to evil by the misapplication of undeniable truths : — Virtue ? a fig ! ’tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus. Our bodies are our gardens ; to the which, our wills are gardeners ; so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce ; set hyssop, and weed up thyme; supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract it with many ; either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry; why the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. — Othello, Act i. Scene 3. The following selections combine to show an ex- traordinary knowledge of nature, especially in the garden ; and the allusions occur so continually, that it is obvious the mind of the writer must have been richly stored, almost to overflowing, with horticultural learning ; — a learning which could never have been acquired by books; but which must have resulted from close contemplation and deep reflection, the natural consequence of a settled attachment to one of the main pleasures of a country life : — As in an early spring We see the appearing buds ; which to prove fruit, Hope gives not so much warrant, as despair That frosts will bite them. King Henry IV, Part II. Act i. Scene 2. This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth The tender leav'es of hope ; to-morrow blossoms ; And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; . The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. King Henry VIII., Act iii. Scene 2. Shakespeare s Knowledge of Horticulture, Like an envious sneaping frost That bites the new-born infants of the spring. Love's Labours Lost, Act i. Scene i. There was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit ; but in one night, A storm, or robbery, call it what you will. Struck down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves. And left me bare to weather. Cytnbeline, Act iii. Scene 3. Short summers lightly have a forward spring. King Richard III., Act iii. Scene i. In Shakespeare’s time it is evident, from the pro- verbial manner in which the belief is put, that a short summer was expected to follow an early spring. The following need no especial remark : — Why grow the branches when the root is gone ? Why wither not the leaves that want their sap ? King Richard III., Act ii. Scene i. The weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground. Merchant of Venice, Act iv. Scene i. Thou prunest a rotten tree That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. As Yoti Like it. Act ii. Scene 3. As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots That shall first spring and be most delicate. Henry V., Act ii. Scene 4. Guiderius. I do note That grief and patience, rooted in him both, Mingle their spurs tpgether. Arviragus. Grow, patience ! And let the stinking elder, grief, entwine His perishing root, with the increasing bine. Cymbeline, Act iv. Scene 2. Lafeu. One may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such another herb. Clown. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the salad, or, rather the herb of grace. Lafeu. They are not salad herbs, you know, they are nose- herbs. All's Well that Ends Well, Act iv. Scene 5. The royal tree hath left us royal fruit. Idem, Act iii. Scene 7. As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap, Infect the sound pine, and divert his grain, Tortive and errant from his course of growth. Troilus and Cressida, Act i. Scene 3. Note a remarkable passage relating to one of the main processes in horticultural science. It is from the “Winter’s Tale,” Act iv. Scene 3, the scene being laid at a shepherd’s cottage in sheep-shearing time. Perdita, who is officiating as mistress of the feast and ceremonies, says, — Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. — Reverend sirs, For you there’s rosemary and rue : these keep Seeming, and savour, all the winter long : Grace and remembrance be to you both. And welcome to our shearing ! Polixenes. Shepherdess (A fair one are you), well you fit our ages With flowers of winter. Perdita, Sir, the year growing ancient, — Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth Flowers, Insects, Birds ^ and Rural Life. 1 1 9 Of trembling winter — the fairest flowers o’ the season Are our carnations and streak’d gillyflowers, Which some call nature’s bastards : of that kind Our rustick garden’s barren ; and I care not To get slips of them. Polixenes. Wherefore, gentle maiden. Do you neglect them ? Perdita. For I have heard it said There is an art, which, in their piedness, shares With great creating nature. Polixenes. Say, there be ; Yet nature is made better by no mean. But nature makes that mean : so o’er that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock. And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race ; this is an art Which does mend nature, — change it, rather ; but The art itself is nature. Perdita. So it is. Polixenes. Then make your garden rich in gillyflowers. And do not call them bastards. Perdita. I’ll not put The dibble in earth to set one slip of them ; No more than, were I painted, I should wish This youth should say ’twere well ; and only therefore Desire to breed by me. — Here’s flowers for you ; Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ; The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, And with him rises weeping : these are flowers Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given To men of middle age : you are very welcome. Camilla. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock. And only live by gazing, Perdita. Out, alas ! You’d be so lean, that blasts of January Would blow you through and through. — Now, my fairest friend, I would I had some flowers o’ the spring, that might Become your time of day ; and yours, and yours. That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing. — O, Proserpina, For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let’st fall Frym Dis’s waggon ! daffodils. That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes. Or Cytherea’s breath ; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady Most incident to maids ; bold oxslips ; and The crown-imperial ; lilies of all kinds. The flower-de-luce being one ! O, these I lack. To make you garlands of ; and, my sweet friend. To strew him o’er and o’er. The entire scene should be read and studied for its wonderful assemblage of pastoral usages and customs, drawn with true poetic feeling, and with the easy power of one who wrote, not from general knowledge, but from personal familiarity with all he describes. Two passages are especially remarkable. Perdita objects to the streaked gillyflowers, by which Shake- speare meant the wallflower ; and that is what the people of Stratford-upon-Avon and its neighbourhood understand by the word gillyflower at the present day. She objects to it because, being a cross between the white and the red, it is not a pure flower. The art is I 20 Life of Shakespeare. simply the transmission of the pollen from one flower to another of different colour ; which may either be done by the hand of man, or by nature, by means of the air, and by bees. Polixenes explains, — O’er that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, &c. Here we have the whole theory of grafting clearly put by the pen of experience. The imposition of the single bud of the better tree to the wild stock, entirely, in a mysterious manner, changes nature. From this minute eye is formed the future tree, receiving its entire sustenance from the wild stock, and yet being of the superior quality of the tree from which the eye was taken. This is one of the great mysteries of nature, who suffers herself to be, in a manner, trans- formed and improved by the hand of man. The slight bud “ of nobler race,” weighing only a few grains, is inserted into the “ bark of baser kind,” the trunk, probably, of a good-sized tree ; the superior portions of the baser tree are cut and pared away, and the sap from the stock passing through the bud, gene- rates, in time, a tree of nobler race ; but the upper or choicer portion has no influence whatever on the wild or baser stock, all branches from which, if allowed to grow, would produce fruit such as the stock bore before it was inoculated. The change in flowers by inoculation from transmission of the pollen, in various ways, as before mentioned, is alluded to by Perdita, in referring to “streak’d gillyflowers,” which may be termed, as she says they are, “ nature’s bastards,” being crosses, or mixtures, between the flowers of single and pure colours. This source of inoculation or impregnation is well understood by gardeners, and is turned to a practical and profitable account in pro- ducing new varieties of flowers and fruits. The same horticultural phenomena are alluded to in the following passages : — ’Tis often seen, Adoption strives with nature ; and choice breeds A native slip to us from foreign seeds. All's Well that Ends Well, Act i. Scene 3. His plausive words He scatter’d not in ears ; but grafted them To grow there, and to bear. Idem, Act i. Scene 2. Shall a few sprays of us, — The emptying of our father’s luxury. Our scions, put in wild and savage stock. Sprout up so suddenly into the clouds. And overlook their grafters 1 King Henry V., Act iii. Scene 5. Thy mother took into her blameful bed Some stern, untutor’d churl, and noble stock. Was graft with crab-tree slip, whose fruit thou art. King Henry VI., Part II. Act iii. Scene i. Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants. King Richard III., Act iii. Scene 7. We have some old crab-trees here at home, that will not Be grafted to your relish. Coriolanus, Act ii. Scene i. A quotation in which grafting is the leading idea, from “As You Like It,” Act iii. Scene 2, misled one of the best Shakespearian commentators, Steevens, who did not see its drift, and who himself not under- standing horticulture, says, “Shakespeare seems to have had little knowledge of gardening.” Touchstone says, “Truly the tree yields bad fruit.” Rosalind replies, “ I’ll graft it with you, and then I shall graft it with a medlar ; then it will be the earliest fruit in the country, for you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe ; and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.” To show further how completely Steevens misunderstood this speech, he tells us, after the remark quoted, that the medlar is a late fruit, and not an early ! This Shake- speare knew well ; and in this very peculiarity lie the wit and propriety of Rosalind’s retort. To Touch- stone’s remark about the tree bearing bad fruit, Rosa- lind replies, “ I’ll graft it with you, a medlar (a med- dling person) ; and as you are already much decayed you will change the character of the fruit by expediting its ripening ; thus making it the earliest instead of the latest fruit.” The same play furnishes a passage equally mis- understood. Rosalind says she found the verses or love-sonnet addressed to her on a palm-tree ; on which Chalmers remarks, “ A palm-tree in the forest of Arden is as much out of its place as the lioness in a subsequent scene.” Now palm is another name for willow, the tree on which the sonnet was appropriately fixed. The branches bearing the catkins are cut in many parts of the country on Palm Sunday. In the North of England is a distich referring to Easter : — Tid, mid, and misere Carting, palm, and pasch-egg day. Allusions to the farm, and to farming processes and customs, are of very frequent occurrence. Some of the more striking are as follows : — Come, let us go : Our corn’s to reap, for yet our tithes to sow. Measure for Measure, Act iii. Scene 2. As blossoming time That from the seedness the bare fallow brings To teeming foison. Idem, Act i. Scene 5. Silvius. So holy, and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace. That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the man’s harvest reaps : loose now and then A scatter’d smile, and that I'll live upon. As Vou Like It, Act iii. Scene 5. I 2 I Shakespeare s Knowledge of Horticulture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rural Life. Why we take From every tree, lop, bark, and part o’ the timber ; And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack’d. The air will drink the sap. King Henry VIII., Act i. Scene 2. Distinction, like a broad and powerful fan. Puffing at all, winnows the light away. Troilus and Cressida, Act i. Scene 3. The most fond and winnow’d opinions. Ha 7 )ilet, Act v. Scene 3. Whether fanned, as Mr. Waller suggests, should be read for fond, or whether the passage be unaltered, winnowing of corn suggests the metaphor in this as in the previous citation. See also “ King Henry IV., Part II., Act iv. Scene 4. And do not tell me of a woman’s tongue. That gives not half so great a blow to the ear As will a chesnut in a farmer’s fire. Taming of the Shrew, Act i. Scene 2. And there’s my harvest home. Merry Wives of Windsor, Act. ii. Scene 2. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser, an affection’d ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swaths. Twelfth Night, Act i. Scene 4. And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge. Fall down before him like a mower’s swath. Troilus and Cressida, Act. v. Scene 5. The word “swath” is so exclusively rural, denoting mowed barley or grass, that although it is highly ap- propriate in the instances quoted, yet I doubt its use by any other poet besides Shakespeare and Bloomfield ; and I believe the word is unknown to all excepting those born and bred in the country. Your tongue’s sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear. When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Midsummer Nighfs Dream, Act i. Scene i. Why droops my lord, like over-ripen’d corn. Hanging the head at Ceres’ plenteous load ? King Henry VI., Part II. Act i. Scene 2. Want ye corn for bread ? — ’Twas full of darnel. Idem, Part II. Act iii. .Scene 2. His chin new reap’d Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home. King Henry IV, Part I. Act i. Scene 3. He that ears my land, spares my team, and gi^es me leave to inn the crop. All's Well that Ends Well, Act i. Scene 3. As the ox hath his bow, the horse his curb, and the faulcon her bells, so man hath his desires ; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling. As You Like It, Act iii. Scene 3. Like the night-owl’s lazy flights. Or like a lazy thrasher with a flail. King Henry VI., Part III. Act i. Scene 2. At my farm I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail, Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls. And all things answerable to this portion. Taming of the Shrew, Act ii. Scene i. Conrade. . . . . It is impossible you should take true root, but by the fair weather that you make yourself ; ’tis needful that you frame the seasons for your own harvest. Don Joh)i. I had rather be a canker in a hedge, than a rose in his grace. Much Ado about Nothing, Act i. Scene 3. The Second Part of “ King Henry IV.” abounds so profusely with pictures of rural life and with sketches so illustrative of customs exclusively pertaining to the farm-house, to the manor-house, and to various grades of society in the country, that it is difficult to avoid concluding that any person who could have portrayed so faithfully and so minutely, must have had unusual opportunities for observation and study. In all the scenes in which Justice Shallow figures, peculiar phases of country life and manners are so wonderfully drawn, that to be fully understood, a country education is required, such as we can but also believe that Shake- speare had received. In the second scene Shallow and Silence meet at the house of the former, in Glouces- tershire ; Shallow, who receives his cousin cordially, runs riot in telling stories of his early life, interspersed with reflections on the brevity and fleetness of human life, coupled with the business and worldly concerns of the day. After a long parade of his youthful ad- ventures and prowess, he exclaims — O the mad days that I have spent ! and to see how many of mine old acquaintances are dead ! Silence. We shall all follow, cousin. Shallow. Certain, ’tis certain ; very sure, very sure ; death, as the Psalmist saith, is common to all ; all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair 1 Sile)tce. Truly, cousin, I was not there. Shallow. Death is certain. — Is old Double of your town living still ? Silence. Dead, sir. Shallow. Dead ! — See, see ! — he drew a good bow ; and dead ! — he shot a fine shoot, &c. — How a score of ewes now ? Silence. Thereafter as they be : a score of ewes may be wort ten pounds. Shallow. And is old Double dead ! Shallow, anxious to receive Sir John Falstaff with due honours, is somewhat distracted by his factotum, Davy, interposing matters relating to the farm, and to the magisterial office. On Shallow’s ordering the cook to be summoned, Davy replies, — Marry, sir, thus ; — those precepts cannot be served : and, again, sir ; — shall we sow the headland with wheat I Shallow. With red wheat, Davy. But for William Cook — Are there no young pigeons ? Davy. Yes, sir. — Here is now the smith’s note for shoeing, and plough-irons. Shallow. Let it be cast, and paid. Davy. Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must needs be had : and, sir, do you mean to stop any of William’s wages about the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley fair ? Shallow. He shall answer it : — Some pigeons, Davy ; a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook. About thy business, Davy. Davy. I beseech you, sir, to countenance William Visor of Wincot against Clement Perkes of the hill. R 122 Life of Shakespeare. Shallow. There are many complaints, Davy, against that Visor ; that Visor is an arrant knave, on my knowledge. Davy. I grant your worship, that he is a knave, sir ; but, yet, God forbid, sir, but a knave should have some countenance at his friend’s request, &c. Nobler subjects may be portrayed, but it is impos- sible to treat such as this more truly and vividly ; and even if there were writers who could approach Shake- speare in his grander walks, they would not be likely to give or even to understand such a description as the foregoing and other rural scenes. The song which concludes "Love’s Labour’s Lost ” is exquisitely rural, a nmltii7n in pa'i'vo enshrinement of country scenery and life, quite beyond the power of any poetic urban genius to group together or to conceive : — I. Spring. When daisies pied, and violets blue. And lady-smocks all silver-white. And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, Do paint the meadows with delight. The cuckoo, then, &c. II. When shepherds pipe on oaten straws. And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks. When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks. The cuckoo then, &c. III. Winter. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail ; And Tom bears logs into the hall. And milk comes frozen home in pail ; When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul. Then nightly sings the staring owl. To- who ; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. IV. When all aloud the wind doth blow. And coughing drowns the parson’s saw ; And birds sit brooding in the snow ; And Marian’s nose looks red and raw ; When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. Then nightly sings, &c. Nothing in nature is more beautiful than the broad expanse of meadow-land in the spring time, when covered with yellow and white flowers, conspicuous among which are " lady-smock ” {cardamine pratensis), crowfoot (ranunculus), cowslip and oxlip (primula vcrsis). In our poet’s time the neighbourhood of Stratford-upon-Avon included more meadow or graz- ing land than it does now ; but at the present day the meadows form an important feature in the scenery. The “ lady-smock ” is said to take its name " from the resemblance of its pendulous white flowers to little smocks hung out to dry, ‘when maidens bleach their summer smocks.’” In the third and fourth stanzas the picture of Winter will be recognized by all who are country-born and bred : the shepherd and hunts- man blowing their finger-nails ; the man of all-work carrying logs of wood into the hall for winter firing ; the milkmaid with the recently warm milk frozen (a rarer sight) ; the icicles hanging from the eaves, and the roads foul from rain and fouler from thaws after a long frost ; the whistling of the wind, the birds brooding in the snow, and, a relief to the horrors of the season, Joan keeling the hot pot, and the crab- apples hissing in the bowl. Crab-apples (often men- tioned) abound around Stratford-upon-Avon ; and, I was informed, they continue to form a festive dish as in Shakespeare’s time. The “Midsummer Night’s Dream” contains so many allusions to habits, customs, and sports essen- tially rural, to flowers and pastoral scenery, that it forcibly exemplifies a mind deeply impressed by country life. The Fairy and Puck, Act ii. Scene i : — Puck. How now, spirit ! whither wander you? Fairy. Over hill, over dale. Thorough bush, thorough briar, Over park, over pale. Thorough flood, thorough fire ; I do wander everywhere. Swifter than the moones sphere ; And I serve the fairy queen. To dew her orbs upon the green : The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; In their gold coats spots you see ; Those be rubies, fairy favours. In those freckles live their savours : I must go seek some dew-drops here ; And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. Either I mistake your shape and making quite. Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite. Called Robin Good-fellow ; are you not he. That fright the maidens of the villagery ; Skim milk ; and sometimes labour in the quern ; And bootless make the breathless housewife churn ; And sometimes make the drink to bear no barm ; Mislead night wanderers, laughing at their harm ? Puck. Thou speak’st aright ; I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile. Neighing in likeness of a filly foal ; And sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl. In very likeness of a roasted crab, &c. In the next scene : — Titania. These are the forgeries of jealousy ; And never since the early summePs spring. Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead. By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, Or by the beached margent of the sea. To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind. But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain. As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea Contagious fogs ; which falling in the land. Have every pelting river made so proud That they have overbeme their continents : The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain ; The ploughman lost his sweat ; and the green corn Hath rotted, ere his youth attain’d a beard ; The fold stands empty in the drowned field ; And crows arc fatted with the murrain flock ; ■■ ■ ^ V iv 'H, ■*r .? ' ' \ T ,‘ .r - ':m ■ V. C' >, ‘ J..;'"'^' ^ ^ ' r». , „ - , . Jji: ‘ ’C?v .v'.. ■ »( • .•* ■] ,■ ■ w» ' '„ *•. .' :.■!»_■* , ■ ' v| ' k' , .,_ ■ .i' • '■ ■«- '-V -. • • Jk' ■ t > % IT*' . 1 ^‘ ' \ . * V - 4 ^' . • t’ • •* fc .. a «- ■ ■ ■ ^ ^ "T 'f'tt? •'■'^ fci.' ' ; ‘ ' 'v-'i V ^ - 1^ --ji ... ■ ■ r • ’ . , ■;' *,^ -i \;ss -' A- '•'■■■ > i •sMki. Jw * .. ,*.■'¥' o. ^.*- .. < ^ .v.-V' V" o, V';h'*: 4 '..' ft 0 fl?^* ^ f. 1,’t r-. ' • 0 f*U >■- •»»i '3 W' ^ «>* ■ : * •• M ?• a ' |K-l '■ .* . %.- Z 1 . ■ K .’*' ,«'24fr ' " '•-*'-^ ’' ,x»V * i' ' '■ , .. ., ^ ,, ^ *' I * <■■' ■ 1 ' •^. > 5 ' *^' • ^ ■ i t. «M M-' r?- .- . . “ j. A ’ ■ ■» 'v.VF •fc .-V 'W. «S > ‘ "" 'A* 11 . y’' ^ .. ;» ;jk* 'wdVs' ..■*4 '*1 *. I /i t i K. ' .:’i^ i* « * .^- M ^ V'!^ i»*», ■ ti -. ‘ «« 1-4.' Ji , 'n V _ '-" ’ ^ 'm m ■■ , V »■ A- ■• St.. ^ ^ kO T| k 5fl(f ) 0 ^ '• P' a - ,tk ■J'-JS'* . * I v.'„ • •rr.^^# ,- “ ■' .. ..V • ^ -'■ v>'^ .h ■«■ ;:4 • r , -t .. tCif > 4 & * -te ■*■ t i> u /*r ;• ^ If.' .jjb'Wr'-ii . ,^.. y Si’ V:'>^ tit ■'■“ '•i. *' * iY/ !S t«e- 1 < V « '* . ^,M' , I ^ 1 .'. ,■ ^'t ■» ■V. - sk. ,* ■Y 4 -V" J 0 VV’ • .* '' **X '3 *> ■ 4 .%^ ■ i^Zf t N V; - Z y *.,. . ' ' ' * :»: ' 'fe '-■ ••t ..i^“ ' ’- ' ''-■ .y^'inrr • y' , '.y * - .-'r*' j « » \w ^>. , . ' " ■ ■ i ti MlS r,. Pf"'-' «;% >j »es» /!’. -■ ''T ,* *, *» yv •*' 1' "4 ^ Vt^.r ^ ApJL p.* ’Vi- /'^■•;.t. ■ .-?:' ''ji jCi :».* ■■»4 •» 4 Jkk'vn - .V ■ * » •^.5 • iV.i^ . ‘ ■■ if' ‘ K.-ki V- l.‘ • ,-'• . i , ■ ^ -■« ' -’i t t Shakespeare s Knowledge of Horticulture, The nine men’s morris is fill’d up with mud ; And the quaint mazes in the wanton green, For lack of tread, are undistinguishable : The human mortals want their winter here ; No night is now with hymn or carol blest : — Therefore the moon, the governess of floods. Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatick diseases do abound : And through this temperature, we see The seasons alter ; hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose ; And on old Hyems’ chin, and icy crown. An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries and the mazed world. By their increase, now knows not which is which ; And this same progeny of evil comes From our debate, from our dissension. ***** , Titania. Come, now for a roundel, and a fairy song ; Then, for the third part of a minute, hence ; Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds ; Some war with rear-mice for their leathern wings To make my small elves coats ; and some keep back The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders At our quaint spirits. Passages abound which contain most remarkable evidence of Shakespeare’s knowledge of wild plants and flowers. They are always introduced appro- priately, and springing freely from a mind well stored ; often with touching effect, as in the mouth of Ophelia, in “Hamlet,” Act iv. Scene 5 : — There’s rosemary ; that’s for remembrance ; pray you, love, remember : and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts : there’s fennel for you, and columbines : — there’s rue for you ; and here’s some for me : — we call it herb of grace o’ Sundays : you may wear your rue with a difference. — There’s a daisy : — 1 would give you violets ; but they withered when my father died. And the Queen in relating Ophelia’s death : — There is a willow grows ascaunt the brook. That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream ; Therewith fantastick garlands did she make Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples. That liberal shepherds give a grosser name. But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them. Cordelia in describing Lear in his madness : — Crown’d with rank fumiter, and furrow weeds. With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers. Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn — Search every acre in the high-grown field. King Lear, Act iv. Scene 4. Shakespeare, like all our great poets, reverently ad- mired, and fondly loved, the beautiful denizens of our woods and meadows. Scarcely is there any of our familiar floral friends that does not secure some praise from him, or bear some allusion. Many a time, doubtless, has the Bard of Avon wandered through the meadows bordering the river of his native home, where do well-nigh all the flowers that he has men- F lowers. Insects, Birds, and Rural Life. 123 tioned flourish in profusion. Indeed, we know a meadow, through which the Avon gently flows, ad- joining the well-known deer-park of Charlecote, where the “ king-cups,” “ king-fingers,” the blue and white milkwort, forget-me-not, the yellow rattle — The daisies pied, and violets blue. And lady-smocks, all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds, of yellow hue. Do paint the meadows with delight ; Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act v. Scene 2. are so luxuriant that we might almost fancy “Mickle” meadow to be the identical one here portrayed. That Shakespeare was at least familiar with the names of all, or nearly all, the wild flowers of his country, his frequent mention of them bears witness ; and that he was not unacquainted with the properties, real or fancied, of many of the more peculiar. It is to some of these latter that we wish principally to draw attention, by mentioning a few facts concern- ing them that may not be uninteresting nor void of instruction to the general reader. We will not then pause long to say much touching the familiar and universally loved violets, daisies, and bluebells ; for there must be few dwellers in the country who do not know some Bank whereon the wild thyme blows. Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows. Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine. With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine ; or who have not gathered cowslips, either for home- made wine for the elder ones, or for the manufacturing of balls for the younger members of their family. It is this flower that the fairies prize. Thus, one of them to Puck — Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough briar. Over park, over pale. Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere. Swifter than the moones sphere ; And I serve the fairy queen. To dew her orbs upon the green : The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; In their gold coats spots you see ; Those be rubies, fairy favours. In those freckles live their savours : I must go seek some dewdrops here. And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. A plant to which the most extraordinary super- stitions have been attached is the mandrake {Atropa mandragorci) The root of this plant is forked, similar to an ill-grown carrot, and was supposed to present some resemblance to the lower half of the human figure ; it was imagined to possess the most incredi- ble virtues in removing infirmities and in preserving from misfortunes ; but it was as credulously believed that to pull it up would be followed by the instan- taneous death of the perpetrator ; that it shrieked or R 2 Life of Shakespeare. 1 24 groaned when torn from the ground ; and that, whoever heard the shriek, either died directly or became mad. Thus Shakespeare speaks of it, — Torn out of the earth, That living mortals hearing them run mad ; and, in the Second Part of “ Henry VI.,” Suffolk says, — Would curses kill as doth the mandrake's groaji, I would invent as bitter searching terms, As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear. All danger, however, ceased on the satisfactory ex- traction of the mandrake, which then became the good genius of its fortunate possessor. The (reported) mode of obtaining it was to fasten the tail of a dog by a cord to the stem of the mandrake ; the animal was then whipped, until by his struggles the plant was dragged from the ground. The persons assisting in this opera- tion were said to have their ears filled with pitch, lest they should hear the fatal shriek. One of our common poisonous British herbs men- tioned by Shakespeare is the hemlock. Every one is familiar with the “ Witch ” scene in “ Macbeth,” where the three hideous old women gloat over their horrible concoction in the caldron — how the first comes forward and says, — Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d ; then the second, — Thrice ; and once the hedge-pig whined ; then the third, — Harper cries, ’Tis time ! time ! Then they proceed in order to contribute their several abominable items, of which the third supplies — Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf ; Witches’ wummy; maw, and gulf. Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark ; Root of hemlock, digg’d i’ the dark ; Liver of blaspheming Jew; Gall of goat, and slips of yew. Silver’d in the moon’s eclipse, &c. The hemlock here mentioned {Conium inaculatuin) belongs to the family of plants Umbclliferce, well known both in our fields and gardens ; for many of this tribe are cultivated as culinary vegetables, such as parsnip, carrot, parsley, celery, and fennel, men- tioned by Ophelia: — There’s fennel for you, and columbines ; while of the uncultivated species, are the sheep’s and fool’s parsley, wood sanicle, and several others, in- cluding the earth or pig-nut, the last being also alluded to by Shakespeare, who makes Caliban say — I prythee let me bring thee where crabs grow ; And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts. And, lastly, the rock samphire {Crithmum maritimuni). Edgar says (“ King Lear,” Act iv. Scene 6): — Come on, sir ; here’s the place : stand still. — How fearful And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low ! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air. Show scarce so gross as beetles : half way down Hangs one that gather’s samphire, — dreadful trade ! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The members of this group, the Umbellifers, as they are called, may be readily recognized by the peculiar parachute-like form of the flower-stalk, called by botanists an umbel. It is an order, moreover, similar to the potato family, in that many of its members are poisonous, though not all. Hence it is one that must be looked upon with suspicion. Even the agreeable celery owes its wholesomeness only to its being blanched ; for certain deleterious properties are de- veloped in the green parts that are exposed to light. But, of all, the hemlock is probably the most deadly. It was the juice of this plant, according to some, that the greatest Athenian philosopher, Socrates, was com- pelled to drink. Let us now take leave of these direful plants, and turn to some of the more popular favourites. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance ; Pray you, love, remember : and there is pansies. That’s for thoughts. Thus speaks Ophelia. Every one knows the “pansy freaked with jet,” the viola tricolor oi botanists, either in the diminutive wild form, or in its more noble condition, the florist’s pride, generally called heart’s-ease ; but here Shakespeare gives us its derivation — “ a thought ” — from the French paisL. It is also called “ three faces under a hood,” “call me to you,” and “ love in idleness,” under which name it is immortalized in the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” as supplying Oberon with the mysterious juice which, when expressed upon Titania’s eyelids, induced her upon waking to become enamoured of an ass. The “ blue-veined violets,” as Shakespeare calls the sweet-scented species, of the same genus as the pansy, of course meet with abundant allusion. Thus — Violets dim. But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes. Or Cytherea’s breath. Amongst supposed vulneraries, Shakspeare makes allusion to — The plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper’s wound. In “ Romeo and Juliet,” we believe, it is said that — Your plaintain leaf is excellent for your broken shin. Amongst fruits mentioned by Shakespeare, the apple comes in for frequent allusion. Take, for instance, the Clown’s speech in the “ Winter’s Tale (Act iv. Scene 2), “ I must have saffron to colour the warden-pies.” To this day, in the Warwickshire hedge-rows, the 125 Shakespeare s Knowledge of Horticulture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rttral Life. warden-pear, or “ hard-warden,” as it is more com- monly called, still grows. It is of a dark green colour, when hanging on the tree, but, when kept, turns after Christmas to a deep yellow tinge. The peasants graphically describe it “ as a winter pear, rather long at the ‘snout’ end, and narrowish at the ‘stuck ’ end.” A warden-pie is, to this day, in Warwickshire, called warden-cob, and consists merely of a warden- pear wrapped in a coat of paste, and then baked, forming a most primitive dish. So again, too, in the Second Part of “ King Henry IV.” (Act V. Scene 3), Davy serves Justice Shallow with “ leathern-coats,” or leatheran coats as they are now called, an apple common in the neighbourhood of Stratford. A very old tree of this species was stand- ing, till recently, at Weston Sands, from which other young trees have been raised. The fruit is still highly valued, possessing a fine white pulp, of a deli- cate acid flavour, beneath its thick, tough rind, whence it derives its name. This same apple is met with in the more southern counties under the names of “ leather-jacket,” “buff-coat,” and “russetine.” Other apples, too, mentioned in his plays, are found round Stratford. Thus, in the dialogue between Mercutio and Romeo (“Romeo and Juliet,” Act ii. Scene 4) : — Mercutio. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. Romeo. Nay, good goose, bite not. Mercutio. Thy wit is a very bitter-sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce. Rotneo. And is it not well served unto a sweet goose t This species is still grown, especially at Cleeve and Littleton, where it is now prized as a cider apple. It might, with more propriety, be called a “sweet- bitter,” than its present country name of “ bitter- sweet,” for its flavour is at first sweet, and afterwards of a very stringent bitter. The minute allusion to its use as a sauce, which is still the case, is an instance of Shakespeare’s observance in the commonest things. Again, too, in the First Part of “ King Henry IV.” (Act iii. Scene 3), we find Falstaff complaining that he is “withered like an old apple-John;” and in the Second Part (Act ii. Scene 4) we find two drawers thus conversing : — First Drawer. What the devil hast thou brought there? Apple-Johns? Thou knowest. Sir John cannot endure an apple-John. Second Drawer. Thou sayest true. The Prince once set a dish of apple-Johns before him, and told him, there were five more Sir Johns : and, putting off his hat, said, “ I will now take my leave of these six dry, round, old, withered knights.” This very apple which gave so much offence to Fal- staff, may still be found at “Dancing” Marston and at Bishopton, but the species is fast wearing out and becoming very scarce. The fruit is red and ruddy, of good quality, and in perfection in September. The common notes upon this passage say that it is “an apple which will keep two years,” the very reverse of the case, altogether missing the Prince’s joke, which likens Sir John to his red and ruddy namesake, which so soon becomes old and withered. There is also, in Warwickshire, a species of crab, called crab-John and crab-jack, which will keep almost for years, and is used by the farmers for puddings in winter time, and also mixed with pears in making perry, being very juicy, but too sour by itself to make cider; but it must not be confounded with Shake- speare’s apple-John, of which Philips says, — Its wither’d rind, entrench’d By many a furrow, aptly represents Decrepit age ; Cider, Bk. i. thus corroborating the fitness of the Prince’s simile. Again, too, in the same play (Act v. Scene 3) we find Shallow, in his house in Gloucestershire — only the other side of the Avon — saying to Falstaff, “You shall see mine orchard, where in an arbour we will eat a last year’s pippin of mine own grafting, with a dish of carraways which do not, of course, mean the comfits of that name, as most of the notes say, but the carraway-russet, an apple still well-known, both in the midland and southern counties, for its flavour and its good keeping qualities. So, too, in “ Love’s Labour’s Lost ” (Act iv. Scene 2), we meet the old pedant Holo- fernes talking about the “pomewater,who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of ccbIo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven, and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth which is, in its way, an excellent description, for the pomewater is a large apple, looking very tempting on the tree, but, in reality, excessively sour. The medlar, another example of the same family (Rosaced), to which the apple, pear, plum, apricot, rose, and strawberry belong, has a brief allusion to the fact of its only becoming eatable after having undergone a kind of putrefactive fermentation. Warwickshire harvest-homes are a feature of the country, when, as Shakespeare says, — The Summer’s green is girded up in sheaves. Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard. The passage — Fie, daughter? when my old wife lived, upon This day, she was both pantler, butler, cook ; Both dame and servant ; welcomed all ; served all ; Would sing her song, and dance her turn : now here At upper end o’ the table, now i’ the middle. On his shoulder, and his : her face o’ fire With labour ; and the thing she took to quench it. She would to each one sip ; — might to this day stand as a description of a harv^est- supper at some of the old Warwickshire farm-houses. And at such feasts some short snatches of the songs found in Shakespeare’s plays may still be heard. 126 Life of Shakespeare. He knew well the periodic changes which the aspect of the external world is ever undergoing ; that each season exhibits distinct and characteristic features, and brings attractions and motives for exertion pecu- liarly its own. He realized that these changes are not confined to inanimate nature, for the reflective mind, which scans with attention these evanescent trains of thought and feeling, notes how varying the same man is at different seasons. Our ideas of pleasure in December and June are as completely distinct and as much contrasted, as would be those of different individuals living in distant regions. Shakespeare’s observation of Natural History was of the true kind, inasmuch as it brings home the love of nature to the thoughts and affections of men, and furnishes that series of pleasurable emotions, which the proper know- ledge of the objects by which we are surrounded in- cessantly affords. The fact of our great poet being a naturalist has enabled him to depict truly many of the great and attractive objects which Nature, as if to win us to herself, has placed on our right hand and on our left. Other poets have seldom done so without an intermixture of error, and too often do we find that fancy takes the place of observation. Dr. Johnson, in applying to Shakespeare the epithet of “ the Poet of Nature,” did not overstep the bound of appreciation of the rich garniture of the verse in which he has faith- fully arrayed the phenomena which he himself had seen. Most true is it that his attention was not con- fined to the actions of men ; he was an exact sur- veyor of the inanimate world ; his descriptions have always some peculiarity gathered by contemplating things as thej'’ really exist ; whether life or nature be his subject, Shakespeare shows plainly that he has seen with his own eyes. He gives the image which he receives, not weakened or distorted by the interven- tion of any other mind ; the ignorant feel his repre- sentations to be just, and the learned see that they are complete. It is impossible to over-estimate the surprising power and accuracy of Shakespeare’s observation in natural life. Robert Patterson, of Belfast, a thorough lover of nature, and one of the ablest workers in direct- ing studies to their proper channel, examined the plays of Shakespeare with respect to the notices of natural objects which they contain, and found that the pas- sages containing these notices when transcribed under the several heads which naturalists have adopted in their classifications, occupied more than one hundred closely-printed pages of letter-paper. Of these, twenty- two pages related to the mammalia ; sixteen to birds ; nine to reptiles and fishes ; two to shells and minerals ; nine to insects ; thirteen to trees, flowers, and fruits ; and twenty-nine to those ever-varying features which mark the progress of the seasons, or depict some of the countless phenomena of nature. Mr. Patterson’s acute observation of the habits of insects made him the very man to analyze Shake- speare’s intimacy with the minutiae of insect life, and he may be said to have exhausted the subject. His knowledge of the great author’s writings being on a par with his love of entomology and its study, with a view to a practical application to our daily life, causes us to draw largely on his charming descriptions. While Milton and other poets have strung together in their descriptions the blossoms of spring and the flowers of summer, Shakespeare has placed in one group those only which may be found in bloom at the same time. Any trivial defects are those of the age in which he lived ; the beauty of truth of his pictures are his own. Only look at the enumeration of flowers in Milton’s “ Lycidas ” and that of Shakespeare in the “ Winter’s Tale.” In the former we have among “ vernal flowers ” many of those which are the offspring of midsummer. The musk-rose, the woodbine, and the amaranthus of a still more advanced sea.son, are grouped with the daf- fodil, the primrose, and the violet of early spring. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freak’d with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attired woodbine, With cowslips wan, that hang the pensive head. And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears. To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. In the “ Winter’s Tale,” Perdita presents the “ flowers of winter, rosemary, and rue,” to her reverend guests ; “ to men of middle age,” are given the “flowers of middle summer.” Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram. The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, And with him rises weeping. Act iv. Scene 3. When she addresses her “ fairest friend,” her words are — I would I had some flowers o’ the spring, that might Become your time of day ! and “ yours and yours,” she continues, as she ad- dresses those of a more advanced age ; and in her invocation — O Proserpina For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let’st fall From Dis’s waggon — she retains the same order, beginning with the daffodil, and ending with the fleur-de-lis : Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty — violets, dim. But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes. Or Cytherea’s breath ; pale primroses. 127 Shakespeare s Ktiowledge of Hortictdture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and R^^ral Life. That die unmarried ere they can behold Bright Phcebus in his strength, a malady Most incident to maids ; bold oxslips, and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The fleur-de-lis being one ! The impress on our great author’s writings is that of one born to the country and living in it, his works afford evidence in a remarkable degree of his intimate acquaintance with country life, and force a conviction, that in his early days, he dwelt mostly in the neigh- bourhood of Stratford-upon-Avon, in and among the scenes which were so deeply impressed upon his memory as to afford a constant and copious source of poetical imagery. His family connexions were, at least in part, agricultural ; and whether, during his edu- cation in the Grammar School at Stratford, he lived partly in the town and partly with his relatives in the neighbourhood, his works show that he must have passed much of his time, as a boy, in the country itself. There are such abundant expressions, allusions, and similes so essentially rural, that they could hardly have been used by any writer not of country growth, and can be fully understood only by those who have been brought up in the country itself. The frequent introduction of passages peculiarly rural show such a deep insight into country customs and pursuits, such an intimate knowledge of horticultural processes and the business of the farm, as could only have been ac- quired in gardens and farm-houses. Truly he loved the country at all times and at all seasons ; there was nothing beautiful in nature that escaped his eye. The progress of flowers, their periods of appearing, their varying forms and qualities, the myriad insect tribes that hover around and within them ; the habits of birds, their departure and return ; the different customs of animals, the variety of trees, to him revealed new wonders, adding to his knowledge, daily gaining triumphs over nature, constant progression in wisdom, with increasing admiration and understanding the pro- ductions of the Omnipotent. Ask the student or the learned the most ordinary question regarding vege- table physiology ; the probability is that such a subject will be found to have been regarded as beneath a modern student’s notion of science, or, at least, that its consideration has never engaged serious attention. Inquire how the knowledge of mathematics gives new views of the sublime science of astronomy, and you will receive the information you demand. Request an exposition of some particular theory in metaphysics, and your desire may still be gra- tified. Ask him concerning an event in the ancient history of the world, or the connexion of classic fable and historic truth, and your questions are answered. But ask this same literate to describe the function or uses of some common plant, or insect ; — one which he sees every day, with which he has been familiar from childhood, and he will be unable to answer, nay, most likely, unable to tell its name. Here is the radical error even in our so-styled “ University education.” Its votaries are conversant with books, not with nature ; they view nature through the spectacles of books. With the works which form the most lasting monuments of the talents of man, they are familiar ; of those nobler works which bear the visible impresss of the Deity, they are often profoundly ignorant. They forget that Solomon “ spake of trees, from the cedar tree that is in Lebanon, even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall ; he spake also of beasts, and of fowl, and of creeping things, and of fishes.” Take courage, ye timid observers, continue to steal hours from the bustle of the world and devote them to the study of natural history, thus shall ye harvest a tranquillizing, contented, and invigorating spirit, when both mind and body are fatigued with the unre- mitting exertions of business. Fear not the prejudices of those who may regard you as weak and frivolous, as a busy yet unprofitable idler, and unworthy to rank with men engaged in mere bustling occupations. Know you that England’s mighty Bard deemed any- thing and everything, however minute, which God has been pleased to create, worthy of man’s closest study. He abundantly felt that ‘^the beauties of the wilderness are His,” and the leafy monarch of the forest, the lowly and fragile flower, the Leviathan with his plated mail, and each tiny wing that flutters in the sunbeam, only as so many varied manifestations of the same Al- mighty Power. “King Lear” presents pictures of country life so vigorously sketched that they evince a knowledge beyond what reading could give ; a peculiar tuition acquired only by long attentive thought in and among the scenes themselves. Take a few selections from many : — The country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices. Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary ; And with this horrible object, from low farms. Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatick bans, sometime with prayers. Enforce their charity. Act ii. Scene 3. Fool. Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way. Idem, Scene 4. The character of Edgar disguised as a madman could hardly have been drawn, as Shakespeare draws it, but by one to whom country customs and super- stitions were well known. “ Poor Tom, whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, over bay and quagmire ; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew ; set ratsbane by his porridge ; made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inch bridges Poor Tom, that eats the Life of Shakespeare. 1 28 swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt, and the water-newt ; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets ; swallows the old rat, and the ditch dog ; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool ; who is whipped from tything to tything, and stocked, punished, and imprisoned.” — Act iii. Scene 4. Note Edgar’s apostrophe to the imaginary dogs when Lear, in his madness, fancies his own Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart have turned against him : — Avaunt, you curs ! Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, Hound or spaniel, brach or lym ; Or bobtail-tyke, or trundle-tail. Idem, Scene 6. Field sports form another and rather prominent feature in the rural life of our great poet, from hunting, falconry, and fishing, to bear-baiting, cock- fighting, and even the ferreting of rabbits ; but no- where do we find the least token of thoughtless cruelty ; on the contrary, the feeling of mercy per- vades the whole. Theseus. Go, one of you, find out the forester — For now our observation is perform’d : And since we have the vaward of the day, My love shall hear the musick of the hounds ; — Uncouple in the western valley; go : — Despatch, I say, and find the forester : — We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top, And mark the musical confusion Of hounds and echo in conjunction. Hippolyta. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once. When in a wood of Crete they bay’d the bear With hounds of Sparta ; never did I hear Such gallant chiding ; for, besides the groves. The skies, the fountains, every region near Seem’d all one mutual cry ; I never heard So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. Theseus. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind. So flow’d, so sanded ; and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew ; Crook-kneed and dew-lapp’d, like Thessalian bulls ; Slow in pursuit ; but match’d in mouth like bells, Each under each. MidsuTJi7ner Night's Drea7n, Act iv. Scene i. How does your fallow greyhound, sir ? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsale. Merry Wives of Wmdsor, Act i. Scene i. The Cotswold Hills, like all high, open, and dry land, are well suited for coursing ; and matches were, no doubt, made there, time out of mind. In the time of James I., Warton states that games and sports were instituted on the Cotswold Hills by a public- spirited attorney of Barton-on-the-Heath. The wounded stag is exquisitely pictured in " As You Like It.” The reflections, while they spring from a mind well acquainted with the world, show also an intimacy with the sport of deer-hunting, but I without sympathy with it. | Duke, se7i. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools. Being native burghers of this desert city, — Should, in their own confines, with forked heads. Have their round haunches gored. \st Lord. Indeed, my lord. The melancholy Jacques grieves at that : And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp ! Than doth your brother that hath banish’d you. To-day, my lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him, as he lay along Under an oak, whose antique roots peep out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ; To the which place a poor sequester’d stag. That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt, Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord. The wretched animal heaved forth such groans. That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears Coursed one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase ; and thus the hairy fool. Much marked of the melancholy Jacques, Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook. Augmenting it with tears. Duke, se7t. But what said J acques ? Did he not moralize this spectacle ? \st Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping in the needless stream : “ Poor deer,” quoth he, “ thou mak’st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much!” Then, being alone. Left and abandon’d of his velvet friends ; “’Tis right,” quoth he ; “this misery doth part The flux of company anon, a careless herd. Full of the pasture, jumps along by him. And never stays to greet him : “Ay,” quoth Jacques, “ Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ; ’Tis just the fashion : wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ?” Thus most inventively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court. Yea, and of this our life : swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants ; and what’s worse. To fright the animals, and to kill them up, In their assign’d and native dwelling-place. Act ii. Scene i. ■ Where is the bush That we must stand and play the murderer in ? Lovds Labour’s Lost, Act iv. Scene i. These details of deer-shooting reveal an acquaint- ance with the sport far more intimate than could have been acquired by books ; and, as before mentioned, they have some weight in relation to the tradition respecting the youthful poet’s adventures in Charlecote Park. Like the wounded deer, most injured animals seek seclusion : — Be7iedick. Alas ! poor hurt fowl ! now will he creep into sedges. — Much Ado abo7it Nothi/ig, Act ii. Scene 1 . Hawking, a sport of the nobility and gentry, is continually drawn upon by Shakespeare for similes ; and as the terms formerly used are now obsolete, their use is one of the many causes why the language is difficult to be understood fully, except when given I with notes and explanation.s. I The first scene of the second act of “ King Henry VI.,” Part II., opens with the Court hawking at St. Alban’s : — Shakespeare s Knowledge of H or tictdture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Ritral Life. 129 Q. Margaret. Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook, I saw not better sport these seven years’ day ; Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high ; And, ten to one old Joan had not gone out. K. Henry. But what a point, my lord, your falcon made ; And what a pitch she flew above the rest ! To see how God in all His creatures works ! Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. Suffolk. No marvel, an it like your Majesty, My lord protector’s hawks do tower so well ; They know their master loves to be aloft. And bears his thoughts above his falcon’s pitch. Gloster. My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind That mount’s no higher than a bird can soar. ***** Cardinal. Thy heaven is on earth ; thine eyes and thoughts Beat on a crown. And fowling : — Stalk on, stalk on, the fowl sits. Much Ado about Nothing, Act ii. Scene 3 ; alluding to the fowler’.s stalking-horse. This quarry cries on havock. Hamlet, Act. v. If 1 do prove her haggard. Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings I’d whistle her off ; and let her down the wind To prey at fortune. Othello, Act iii. Scene 2. Like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. Twelth Night, Act iii. Scene i. And— Her spirits are as coy and wild As haggards of the rock. Much Ado about Nothing, Act iii. Scene i. Fishing : — Bait the hook well ; this fish will bite. Idem, Act ii. Scene 3. Ursula. The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream. And greedily devour the treacherous bait. Idem, Act iii. Scene i. Here comes the trout that must be caught by tickling. Twelfth Night, Act ii. Scene 3. Threw out his angle for my proper life. Hamlet, Act v. Scene 2. The catching of small birds by bird-lime is alluded to. Suffolk says, — Madam, myself have limed a bush for her And placed a quire of such enticing birds. That she will light to listen to the lays. And never mount to trouble you again. King Henry VI. Part II. Act i. Scene i. Cock-fighting ; His cocks do win the battle still of mine. Antony and Cleopatra, Act ii. Scene 3. Bear-baiting, another popular and, in every respect, brutal pastime of the middle ages, was looked for- ward to with delight, both in towns and in villages. Slender asks Anne Page, “ Why do your dogs bark so Be there bears in the town V' Slender, a type of the young country gentleman of the day, finds a tongue at once and becomes eloquent : — I love the sport well ; but I shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid if you see the bear loose, are you not.^ That’s meat and drink to me now. I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times ; and have taken him by the chain ; but, I warrant you, the women have so cried and shriek’d at it that it pass’d, — but women, indeed, cannot abide them. They are very ill-favoured rough things. Merry Wives of Windsor, Act i. Scene i. Methought, he bore him in the thickest troop. As doth a lion in a herd of neat : Or as a bear, encompass’d round with dogs ; Who having pinch’d a few, and made them cry. The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him. King Henry VI., Part III. Act iii. Scene i. I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course. King Lear, Act iii. Scene 7. The dastardly vice of bird-nesting is more than once indirectly condemned : — Don Pedro. To be whipped ? What’s his fault ? Beatrice. The flat transgression of a school-boy ; who being overjoy’d with finding a bird’s nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it. — Much Ado about Nothing, Act ii. Scene i. Unreasonable creatures feed their young ; And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes. Yet, in protection to their tender ones. Who hath not seen them (even with their wings. Which sometime they have used with fearful flight,) Make war with him that climb’d into their nest. Offering their own lives in their young’s defence. King Henry VI., Part III., Act ii. Scene 2. There are almost numberless passages, not perhaps individually striking, but which, taken collectively, show more than common familiarity with the country, its vegetable and animal productions, its customs and general life : — Pinch the maids as blue as bilberry. Merry Wives of Windsor, Act v. Scene 5 ; contains a simile which would never have occurred to a poet who had not been where bilberries grew, and who seeing them had not been impressed by their peculiar colour. “ As red as a rose,” “ as pale as a primrose,” and similar comparisons would be ready at hand for every poet ; but the bilberry belongs exclusively to out-of-the-way rural districts, and is, comparatively, of rare occurrence. As quarrellous as the weasel. Cymbeline, Act iii. Scene 3 ; is another remarkable simile, for weasels are by no means seen every day, even in their natural haunts. Chalmers says, “ this character of the animal is not warranted by naturalists but the little creature, though easily tamed, is extremely pugnacious, and is ever ready to attack animals larger than itself Shakespeare, therefore, w’ho doubtless knew its habits well, was quite justified in thus designating the weasel. Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one. Cymbeline, Act ii. Scene 5. Acorns arc a common food for swine everywhere. S L ife of Shakespeare. 130 Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave, Who, being look’d on, ducks as quickly in. Venus and Adonis. This water-fowl, called also “ dab- chick,” is common to sedgy ponds and rivers, and must have constantly have met his eye everywhere in his youthful rambles. What homely and rustic metaphors are used in the following : — Rosalind. O, how full of briars is this working-day world ! Celia. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery ; if we walk not in the trodden paths our very petticoats will catch them. As You Like It, Act i. Scene 3. Like one lost in a thorny wood. That rents the thorns, and is rent by the thorns : Seeing a way, and straying from the way ; Not knowing how to find the open air ; But toiling desperately to find it out. King Henry VI., Part III., Act iii. Scene 3, The more we investigate, the more abundantly arise the evidences of our poet as a great observant na- turalist. In hunting and fowling, and in all that relates to deer-stalking, with cross-bow or bow and arrow, to deer-hunting with hounds, and to coursing, as practised in our own day, we find him fully in- formed. In the less noble art of bird- catching he was no mean adept, while the knowTedge which he dis- plays of the habits of our wild animals, as the fox, the badger, the weasel, and the wild cat, could only have been acquired by flood and field. No hound stirred around Stratford without his presence, and we warrant his taking part in the great hawking parties of the neighbourhood. Although the deer, as the nobler animal, has re- ceived more attention from our poet than the fox and hare, yet the two last named are by no means for- gotten : — The fox [who] barks not when he would steal the lamb ; King Henry VI., Part II., Act iii. Scene i. who, when he “ hath once got in his nose,” will “ soon find means to make the body follow VI., Part III., Act iv. Scene 7) ; and — Who ne’er so tame, so cherish’d and lock’d up. Will have a wild trick of his ancestors. Cymbeline, Act v. Scene 2. That coursing was in vogue in Shakespeare’s day, and practised in the same way as at present, is clear from such expressions as “ a good hare finder ” {Much Ado about Nothing, Act. i. Scene i), “ Holla me like a hare ” {Coriola?ms, Act i. Scene 8), and, “ I see you stand, like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start” {King Henry V., Act iii. Scene i). The brock (old name for the badger, Twelfth Night, Act iii. Scene 5), the wild cat, who “sleeps by day” {Merchant of Vefiice, Act ii. Scene 5, and Pericles, Act iii., Intro- I duction) ; “the quarrellous weasel ” {Cymbeline, Act iii. Scene 4, and King Henry IV., Part I., Act ii. Scene 3) ; “the dormouse of little valour” {Twelfth Night, Act iii. Scene i) ; “ the joiner squirrel” {Romeo atid Juliet, Act i. Scene 4), whose habit of hoarding was well known to Shakespeare {Midsummer Night's Dream, Act iv. Scene 2) ; and the “ blind mole,” who “ casts copp’d hills towards heaven ” {Pericles, Act i. Scene i) — all are mentioned in their turn, while the bat, “with leathern wing,” “the venom toad,” “the thorny hedg- hog,” “ the adder blue,” and “ the spotted snake with double tongue,” are all called in most aptly by way of simile or metaphor. See Titania’s directions to her fairies as to bats : — Some war with rear-mice for their leathern wings To make my small elves coats. Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act ii. Scene 2. In alluding to “the venom toad,” as “mark’d by the destinies to be avoided,” Shakespeare probably only treated it as other writers had done before him, and, without any personal investigation, ranked it with the viper and other poisonous reptiles, when in fact it is perfectly harmless. The habit which the snake has, in common with other reptiles, of periodically casting its skin, is fre- quently alluded to. He has noticed that “the snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun” {Titus Andronicus, Act ii. Scene 3), and — It is the bright day that brings forth the adder. And that craves wary walking. Julius CcEsar, Act ii. Scene i. In “ Macbeth,” Act ii. Scene 2, allusion is made to the wonderful vitality which snakes possess, and to the popular notion that they are enabled, when cut in two, to reunite the dissevered portions and recover : — We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it ; She’ll close and be herself. Our author’s ornithological knowledge has been shown forth in the ablest manner by James Edmund Harting, F.L.S., F.Z.S. ; indeed, until Mr. Harting took the pains to elucidate the allusions throughout the great dramatist’s works, especially those bearing on birds, we may be said to have been ignorant of his vast natural history lore. Nobody knew how deeply he had drunk at the well of bird life until Harting opened our eyes to these exhaustless treasures of thought and reflection. Shakespeare’s works present frequent allusions to the royal bird, the princely eagle ; — Behold, his eye As bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth Controlling majesty. King Richard III., Act iii. Scene 3. It has come down to us from antiquity that the eagle possesses the power of gazing undazzled at the Shakespeare s Knowledge of Horticulture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rtiral Life. 13 1 sun. Pliny relates that it exposes its brood to this test as soon as hatched, to prove if they be genuine or not. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun. King Henry V., Part III., Act ii. Scene i. Again — What peremptory eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow That is not blinded by her majesty ? Love's Labour's Lost, Act iv. Scene 3. And then the glance of the eye of true love, he says, in the same play and scene — A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind. And in this respect Paris was said to excel : — An eagle, madam. Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye. As Paris hath. Rotneo and Juliet, Act iii. Scene 5. •The strength of the eagle’s wing is noted : — This was but as a fly by an eagle. Antony and Cleopatra, Act ii. Scene 2. And— An eagle flight, bold, and forth on, Leaving no track behind. Timon of Athens, Act i. Scene i. His great powers of flight do not, however, always secure him from harm : — And often to our comfort, shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold. Than is the full-wing’d eagle. Cymbeline, Act iii. Scene 3. Josephus says the eagle was selected for the Roman legionary standard because he is the king of all birds, and the most powerful of them all, whence he has become the emblem of empire and the omen of victory. Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign Two mighty eagles fell ; and there they perch’d. Gorging and feeding from our soldiers’ hands. Julius CcEsar, Act v. Scene i. As a bird of good omen, Shakespeare ofttimes mentions the eagle : — I chose an eagle, and did avoid a puttock. Cymbeline, Act i. Scene 2. The word kite has been applied to the kite and the common buzzard, and both were considered birds of ill omen. I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d From the spungy south to this part of the west. There vanish’d in the sunbeams. Cymbeline, Act iv. Scene 2. Sicilius, in “Cymbeline,” speaking of the apparition and descent of Jupiter, who was seated upon an eagle, says, — The holy eagle Stoop’d, as to foot us : his ascension is More sweet than our blest fields : his royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak. As when his god is pleased. Cymbeline, Act v. Scene 4. Tamora tells us of the conscious superiority of the eagle : — The eagle suffers little birds to sing. And is not careful what they mean thereby. Knowing that with the shadow of his wing He can at pleasure stint their melody. Titus and A 7 idronicus, Act iv. Scene 4. The longevity of the eagle, great as it is, may be outlived. Apemantus asks of Timon, — Will these moss’d trees That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels. And skip when thou point’st out 1 Tmiott of Athens, Act iv. Scene 3. The eagle is not an exception to other rapacious birds in being fond of bathing. Hotspur. Where is his son. The nimble-footed mad-cap Prince of Wales, And his comrades ? Vernon. All furnish’d, all in arms ; Bated like eagles having lately bathed. • King Henry IV., Part I., Act iv. Scene i Shakespeare was aware of the eagle being trained, and so employs hawking terms in connexion with the bird : — ■ That hateful duke. Whose haughty spirit, wing’d with desire. Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle. Tire on the flesh of me and of my son ! King Henry VI., Part III., Act i. Scene i. When a hawk was in training, it was necessary to prolong her meal as much as possible to prevent her from gorging ; this was done by giving her a bone to “tire on,” or tear at. Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast. Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone, Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, ’Till either gorge be stuff’d or prey be gone. Venus and Adonis. The osprey’s wonderful adaptability of grasping and holding a slippery fish is set forth by Aufidius, when he says, — I think he’ll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature. Coriolatius, Act iv. Scene 7. Shakespeare knew that the kite, though admitted of royal pretension, was a mean, shark-like bird, without the bold dash of our smaller hawks in seizing live and strong prey, but gliding about meanly, and in a sneak- ing, shuffling manner, looking for a sickly or wounded victim, or for offal of any sort. This bird is now nearly extinct, but in our own garden we have for S 2 132 Life of Shakespeare. some years had a pinioned kite, whose habits have been a source of great interest and amusement. With every spring this old lady is seized with a fit of pro- viding for some imagined coming hopeful brood. She rushes about the garden gathering sticks, which are poked about in a most uncouth, unmotherly manner ; with these, after long and painful efforts, a sort of nest is improvised. During the process her temper is sadly put about ; she is angry with everybody and every- thing, and all is wrong, until in despair she abandons matronly pretensions until the advent of another spring. We have never known any one who had seen a kite’s nest with eggs or young, though Mr. Harting had that gratification. His description exactly cor- responds with the nest created annually by the venerable bird domesticated in our own garden, and is described by him as “ composed of strong sticks, the lining consisting of pieces of linen, part of a saddle- girth, a bit of a harvest glove, part of a straw bonnet, pieces of paper, and a worsted garter. In the midst of this singular collection of materials were deposited two eggs.” Now our own kite’s annually-made seat of desired incubation, though not containing a portion of a saddle-girth, had mixed up in its construction more than one piece of an old shoe. And kites Fly o’er our heads, and downward look on us, As we were sickly prey. yulius Ccesar, Act v. Scene r. Ere this, I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave’s offal. Ha 7 nlet.i Act ii. Scene 2. The kite’s cowardice yields somewhat when pressed by hunger. Wert not all one, an empty eagle were set To guard the chicken from a hungry kite. As place Duke Humphrey for the King’s protector? King Hairy VL, Part II., Act Hi. Scene i. The synonym “ puttock ” is applied both to the kite and buzzard : — Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest, But may imagine how the bird was dead. Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak ? King Henry VI., Part II., Act iii. Scene 2. With the ancients the kite was a bird of ill omen. Imogen says, — , I chose an eagle, and did avoid a puttock ! Cymbeline, Act i. Scene 2. The intractable disposition of our friend the would- be-mamma kite is thus noticed : — Another way I have to man my haggard, To make her come, and know her keeper’s call ; That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites, That bate, and beat, and will not be obedient. Taming of the Shrew, Act iv. Scene i. For hawking purposes the wild hawk had to be tamed by watching it night and day, and preventing sleep. The practice is often alluded to by Shake- speare : — You must be watch'd ere you be made tame, must you ? Troilus and Cressida, Act iii. Scene 2. I’ll watch him tame. Othello, Act iii. Scene 3. But I will watch you from such watchitig now. Romeo and Juliet, Act iv. Scene 4. The habit which the kite has, in common with other rapacious birds, of rejecting or disgorging the undigested portions of its food, in the shape of pellets, was well known to Shakespeare ; for he says, — If charnel-houses (Here he had the old charnel-house at Stratford again on his mind) — and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. Macbeth, Act iii. Scene 4. And again — Thou detestable maw — Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth. Romeo and Juliet, Act v. Scene 3. Shakespeare was a perfect master of everything appertaining to falconry. His works abound with passages on the training and management of hawks. Hawking phraseology was no mystery to him. See the force and beauty of the metaphor in the following beautiful passage, even though clothed in techni- calities : — If I do prove her haggard. Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings. I’d whistle her off, and let her down the wind. To prey at fortune. Othello, Act iii. Scene 3. “ Haggard ” was a wild untaught hawk, as distin- guished from a nestling or young bird taken from the “ eyrie,” or nest. The jesses were two narrow strips of leather fastened one to each leg, the two other ends being attached to a swivel, from which depended the “ leash.” When the hawk was flown, the swivel and leash were taken off, the jesses and bells remain- ing on the bird. There is, sir, an aiery of children, little eyases, that cry out. Hamlet, Act ii. Scene 2. Shakespeare seems to have imbibed all the ancient prejudices regarding the owl as a bird of ill-omen. We know that the Romans viewed the bird with detestation and dread, and, according to Pliny, the city of Rome underwent a solemn lustration in con- sequence of an owl having accidentally strayed into the Capitol. Shakespeare, who knew all things, had read in the ancient pharmacopoeia that the owl was a “great medicine,” and so he made “the owlet’s 133 Shakespeare s Knowledge of HorticMlhire, wing” an ingredient of the cauldron wherein the witches prepared their “ charm of powerful trouble ” (“ Macbeth,” Act iv. Scene i), and so he applies the stigmas “ obscure,” “ ominous,” “ fearful,” and “ fatal ” “bird of night.” Its doleful cry pierces the ear of Lady Macbeth during the commission of the murder. Hark ! Peace ! It was the howl that shriek’d. The fatal bellman which gives the stern’st good night. And when the murderer rushes in immediately after- wards, exclaiming, — I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise ? She replies, — I heard the owl scream. And later on, — The obscure bird clamour’d the livelong night. Macbeth, Act ii. Scene 2. Its flying by night is no doubt a main cause of the dread with which it is regarded. Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night. * * * * The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl. Kmg Henry VI., Part II., Act i. Scene 4. Even by day the poor harmless owl cannot show himself as other birds. The owl by day, If he arise, is mock’d and wonder’d at. King Hetity VI., Part III., Act v. Scene 4. If an owl appeared at a birth it foreboded ill to the infant. King Henry VI., addressing Gloster, says, — The owl shriek’d at thy birth, an evil sign. King Henry VI., Part III., Act v. Scene 2. On other occasions its presence was supposed to predict a death, or some dire mishap : — The screech-owl, screeching loud. Puts the wretch, that lies in woe. In remembrance of a shroud. Midsiimmer Night's Dream, Act v. Scene 2. When Richard III. is irritated by the ill news showered upon him, he interrupts the third Mes- senger with — Out on ye, owls ! nothing but songs of death ? King Richard III., Act iv. Scene 4. Among the curious legends which exist in reference to the owl is the odd one put into the mouth of Ophelia : — They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Hamlet, Act iv. Scene 5. Mr. Staunton, in his Shakespeare, says this has reference to a tradition current in some of the western counties, especially in Gloucestershire, to the effect that our Saviour went into a baker’s shop when they were baking, and asked for some bread to eat. The mistress of the shop brought Him a piece of dough, which was immediately put into the oven to bake for Him, but was reprimanded by her daughter, who, insisting that the piece of dough was too large. Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rural Life. reduced it considerably in size. The dough, however, immediately afterwards began to swell, and presently became of an enormous size ; whereupon the baker’s daughter cried out, “ Wheugh ! wheugh ! wheugh ! ” which owl-like noise, it is said, probably induced our Saviour, for her wickedness, to transform her into that bird. There is much difference of opinion amongst na- turalists as to whether the power of hooting and shrieking is possessed by the same species. In “Julius Caesar ” Shakespeare attributes both sounds to the same bird : — Yesterday the bird of night did sit. Even at noon day, upon the market-place. Hooting and shrieking. Act i. Scene 3. It is generally believed that the common barn or white owl does not hoot, but only shrieks, and is, in fact, the bird always alluded to as the “ screech owl,” while the brown owls are the hooters. The clamorous owl that nightly hoots. Midsummer Nights Dream, Act ii. Scene 2. Shakespeare, in his keen observation, believed the owl to be a bird of prey : — For the poor wren. The most diminutive of birds, will fight. Her young ones in the nest, against the owl. Macbeth, Act iv. Scene 2. The opinion is now disputed, and, irtdeed, most eminent naturalists believe otherwise. Its habit of breeding in retired situations is alluded to thus : — Here never shines the sun ; here nothing breeds. Unless the nightly owl. Titles AndronicuSy Kqx. ii. Scene 3. And he has truly characterized the owl’s appearance on the wing, when he speaks of — The night owl’s lazy flight. King Henry VI., Part III., Act ii. Scene i. Why the owl is called the “ bird of wisdom ” is not easy to determine ; possibly because it can see in the dark, and is the only bird which looks straightforward. Shakespeare frequently alludes to its “ five wits,” but it is not clear how this proverbial phrase became con- nected with the owl, nor what is the origin of “ warm- ing the wits.” Petruchio. Am I not wise ? Katherine. Yes, keep you warm. Taming of the Shrew, Act ii. Scene i. If he have wit enough to keep himself warm. Much Ado about Nothing, Act i. Scene 2. Bless my five wits. King Lear, Act iii. Scene 4, and Act iii. Scene 6. But we are reminded of the quaint and charac- teristic song in the last scene of “ Love’s Labour’s Lost 134 Life of Shakespeare. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul. Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who ; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note. While greasy J oan doth keel the pot. Nor can we forget Ariel’s song: — Where the bee sucks, there lurk I ; In a cowslip’s bell I lie. There I couch when owls do cry ! It is not to be supposed that Shakespeare was a firm believer in the popular notions respecting ani- mals and birds to which he has made allusion. In many cases he had a particular motive in introducing such notions, although possibly aware of their erro- neous nature, and he evidently adopted them only to impart an air of reality to the scenes which he depicted, and to bring them home more forcibly to the impressionable minds of his auditors, to whom such “ folks’ lore ” would be familiar. This is notably the case as regards the owl, and no one can read the first scene in the second act of “ Macbeth,” or the fourth scene in the first act of “ King Henry VI.,” Part II., without feeling the impressing effect produced by the introduction of a bird which is held in such detestation by the ignorant, but which naturalists have shown to be not only harmless but useful. The crow family come in for a large share of Shakespeare’s ornithological study. He has intro- duced the raven, with its unearthly nature and omi- nous voice, as a foreteller of evil, into many of the solemn passages of his plays, to carry conviction, and render his images the more impressive. He frequently alludes to “ the ill-boding raven.” It comes o’er my memory. As doth the raven o’er the infectious house. Boding to all. Othello, Act iv. Scene i. Thersites, in “Troilus and Cressida,” Act v. Scene 2, says, — Would I could meet that rogue Diomed ; I would croak like a raven ; I would bode, I would bode. In “ King Henry VI.” Suffolk vainly endeavours to cheer up the King, who has swooned on hearing of Gloster’s death, saying, — Comfort, my Sovereign ! gracious Henry, comfort ! But the King, likening his message to the ill-boding note of a raven, replies, — What doth my lord of Suffolk comfort me ? Came he right now to sing a raven’s note. Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers ; And thinks he, that the chirping of a wren. By crying comfort from a hollow breast. Can chase away the first-conceived sound ? King Henry VI., Part II., Act iii. Scene 2. After Balthazar had sung his well-known song, “Sigh no more ladies” (“Much Ado about Nothing” Act ii. Scene 3), Benedick observes to himself, “ An he had been a dog, that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him : and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief! I had as lief have heard the night- raven, come what plague could have come after it.” Willoughby, the eminent ornithologist, thought that the so-called “ night-raven ” was no other than the bittern, and which he says “ the vulgar call the night- raven, and greatly dread.” Goldsmith, in his “ Ani- mated Nature,” describes the bittern as “ the night- raven.” Its hollow boom, he says, caused it to be held in detestation by the vulgar. “ I remember, in the place where I was a boy, with what terror the bird’s note affected the whole village ; they con- sidered it as the presage of some sad event, and generally found or made one to succeed it. If any person in the neighbourhood died, they supposed it could not be otherwise, for the night raven had fore- told it ; but if nobody happened to die, the death of a cow or a sheep gave completion to the prophecy.” Sometimes it was called the night crow. The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time. Khig Henry VI. Part III., Act v. Scene 6. In “ Macbeth,” the attendant on Lady Macbeth says, — The raven himself is hoarse. That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Macbeth, Act i. Scene 5. In “ King Henry V,” Act iv. Scene 2, we have a graphic picture of a distressed army followed by ravens on the look out for corpses : — Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones, 111 favouridly become the morning field: Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose. And our air shakes them passing scornfully. • * • * * And their executors, the knavish crows Fly o’er them all, impatient for their hour. The solitary habits of ravens during the nesting season are thus recorded : — A barren detested vale, you see, it is ; The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, O’ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe. Here never shines the sun ; here nothing breeds. Unless the nightly owl, or fatal raven. Titus Andronicus, Act ii. Scene 3. A curious belief is mentioned with regard to the rearing of its young : — ■ Some say that ravens foster forlorn children. The whilst their own birds famish in their nests. Titus A fidronicus. Act ii. Scene 3. Shakespeare had the words of the Psalmist in his mind when he wrote, — And He that doth the ravens feed. Yea, providentially caters for the sparrow. Be comfort to my age. As You Like It, Act ii. Scene 3. 135 Shakespeare' s Knowledge of Horticulture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rtiral Life. Ravens’ feathers were employed by the witches of old in their incantations, it being believed that the wings of this bird carried contagion with them wherever they appeared. Shakespeare thus puts the curse into the mouth of Caliban : — As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen, Drop on you both ! Tempest, Act i. Scene 2. The crow is continually alluded to by Shake- speare, generally in its character as a carrion and offal feeder : — The fold stands empty in the drownM field, And crows are fatted with the murrain flock. Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act ii. Scene i. In “ King Henry V.,” Act ii. Scene i : — Boy. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master, — and you, hostess ; — he is very sick, and would to bed Host. By my troth, he’ll yield the crow a pudding one of these days. Many poets have associated the red-legged crow, or “ chough,” with the ordinary crow. 'I'he old song of “ The chough and crow ” will probably be remem- bered during ages yet to come. Choughs have been taught to speak, but Shakespeare did not appreciate their garrulity ; — Chough’s language, gabble enough, and good enough. Alts Well that Ends Well, Act iv. Scene 2. And probably there was a good deal more chattering than talking. There be . . . . lords that can prate As amply, and unnecessarily As this Gonzalo ; I myself could make A chough of as deep chat. Tempest, Act ii. Scene i. Shakespeare has not referred to the jackdaw as often as to many other noted birds, though Warwick, expressing his ignorance of legal matters, says, — But in these nice sharp quillets of the law. Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw. King Henry VI., Part I., Actii. Scene 4. And the crafty and dissembling lago remarks that — When my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. Othello, Act i. Scene i. The rook was not much in our author’s favour. In the “ Merry Wives of Windsor,” Act i. Scene 3, is the expression “ bully rook,” and it would seem that this epithet in his time bore much the same signification as “jolly dog” does now, though later it was applied to mean a cheat and sharper. The beautiful plumage of the jay is thus remarked upon : — What, is the jay more precious than the lark. Because his feathers are more beautiful ? Taming of the Shrew, Act iv. Scene 3. Caliban thus addresses Trinculo : — I ppythee let me bring thee where crabs grow And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts. Show thee a jay’s nest, and instruct thee how To snare the nimble marmozet \ I’ll bring thee Young sea-mells from the rock. Wilt thou go with me ? Te)npest, Act ii. Scene 2. Shakespeare, great observer as he was, could not overlook the sweet birds of song. To him, as to Isaac Walton, “the nightingale had breathed forth such sweet loud music out of her little instrumental throat, that it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that at midnight, when the very labourer sleeps securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might well be lifted above earth and say. Lord, what music hast Thou provided for the saints in hea- ven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth ! ” Although the male bird only is the songster, yet we talk of her singing. It was the nightingale, and not the lark. That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree ; Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Romeo and Juliet, Act iii. Scene 5. Here again, though unnecessary, we have evidence of the great poet’s intimacy with the precise habits of the creatures mentioned by him. Steevens says of the nightingale, “ if undisturbed, she sits and sings upon the same tree for many weeks and Russell, in his “ Account of Aleppo,” tells us “ the nightingale sings from the pomegranate groves in the day-time.” The origin of the change of sex is to be found in the old Ovidian fable which tells us of the transformation of Philomela, daughter of Pandion, King of Athens, into a nightingale, when Progne, her sister, was changed into a swallow. He has noticed the odd belief which formerly existed to the effect that the mournful notes of the nightingale are caused by the bird’s leaning against a thorn to sing. Everything did banish moan. Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up ’till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull’st ditty. That to hear it was great pity. “ Fie, fie, fie,” now would she cry, “ Tereu, tereu ! ” by and by ; That to hear her so complain. Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs so lively shown, Made me think upon mine own. The Passionate Pilgrim, 19. Our great poet was moved by the lark, “ the bird 136 Life of Shakespeare. of dawn,” just as every true lover of the beautiful and heavenly would be. I do hear the morning lark. Midsmnmer Night’s Dream., Act iv. Scene i. It was the lark, the herald of the morn. Romeo a?id Juliet, Act iii. Scene 5. The busy day, Waked by the lark, hath roused the ribald crows. Troilus and Cressida, Act iv. Scene 2. Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest. From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, Aiid wakes the tnortiing, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty. Venus and Adonis. Who does not remember the song in “ Cymbeline ” 1 Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, And Phoebus ’gins arise. His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies ; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes ; With everything that pretty bin ; My lady sweet, arise ; Arise, arise. The hour of the morn is indicated to the labourer : When shepherds pipe on oaten straws. And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks. Song, Lovds Labours Lost. And further — O happy pair. Your eyes are lode-stars, and your tongue’s sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear. When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Midsummer Nights Dreain, Act i. Scene i. When Juliet spoke disparagingly of the lark’s song, it was because she wished the night prolonged, and knew that his voice betokened the approach of day, and dispelled the night-season of her adoration. It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps. * * ^ * Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes ; O, now I would they had changed voices too ! Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray. Romeo and Juliet, Act iii. Scene 5. The “ rising of the lark,” and the “ lodging of the lamb,” have become synonymous with morn and eve. And he that would rise early is counselled to — Stir with the lark. King Richard III., Act v. Scene 3. The singing “ at heaven’s gate ” is again to be noted in one of his Sonnets : — Like to the lark, at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate. The thrush or throstle, so deservedly a favourite in our day, is mentioned by Shakespeare in only some three instances. It is referred to in the “Winter’s Tale,” Act iv. Scene 2 ; in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act iii. Scene i, where Bottom the Weaver, in a doggrel rhyme, sings of The throstle with his note so true. And once again in the “ Merchant of Venice,” Act i. Scene 2, where Portia, speaking of the French Lord Le Bon, and alluding to his national propensity for a dance on every available opportunity, remarks that — If a throstle sings, he falls straight a capering. The blackbird’s note does not seem to have been alluded to by Shakespeare, though his attractive appearance was not lost sight of — The ousel cock, so black of hue. With orange-tawney bill. Midsummer Nights Dream, Act iii. Scene i. When Justice Shallow inquires of Justice Silence, “And how doth my cousin V' he is answered — Alas, a black ousel, cousin Shallow. King Henry IV, Part II., Act iii. Scene 2. An expression equivalent to our phrase, a “ black sheep.” * The robin redbreast, and even the tiny wren, so generally associated together, are not forgotten. The old name of ruddock was adhered to by him occasionally, as in one of his most beautiful pas- sages : — With fairest flowers. Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I’ll sweeten thy sad grave : thou shalt not lack The flower, that’s like thy face, pale primrose ; nor The azured hare-bell, like thy veins ; no, nor The lief of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten’d not thy breath : the ruddock would With charitable bill (O bill, sore-shaming Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie Without a monument !) bring thee all this ; Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flowers are none. To winter-ground thy corse. Cymbeline, Act iv. Scene 2. Portia was not enamoured of the wren’s song when she said, — The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark, When neither is attended ; and I think. The nightingale, if she should sing by day. When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. Merchant of Vefiice, Act v. Scene i. Lady Macduff was reminded of the wren when bewailing the flight of her husband ; — Lady M. His flight was madness. Ross. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. Lady M. Wisdom ! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place. From whence himself does fly He loves us not ; He wants the natural touch ; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, w'ill fight. Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. Macbeth, Act iv. Scene 2. Imogen alludes thus to the wren : — 137 Shakespeare's Knowledge of Horticulture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rural Life. I tremble still with fear ; but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren’s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it ! Cyfnbeline, Act iv. Scene 2. The finch is mentioned in a song in “ Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act iii. Scene i : — The finch, the sparrow, and the lark. The plain-song cuckoo grey. Whose note full many a man doth mark ; And dares not answer, Nay. In "Troilus and Cressida,” when Thersites and Patroclus are abusing each other (Act v. Scene i), the former calls the other “ finch egg.” In many passages he names the sparrow. This bird appears to have been early known by the name “ Philip,” perhaps from its note, to which Catullus alludes in “ Mother Bonitre — Sed circumsiliens, modo hue, modo illuc. Ad solam dominam usque pipUabat. Shakespeare so names it in “King John,” Act i. Scene i : — Gurney. Good leave, good Philip. Bastard. Philip ! sparrow ! And Cressida, when getting ready to meet her lover, that — She fetches her breath so short as a new-ta’en sparrow. In “ Troilus and Cressida,” as well as in “ Hamlet,” are passages again evidencing the poet’s knowledge of Holy writ, by the allusion to Matthew x. 29 : — I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a penny ! Troilus and Cressida, Act ii. Scene i. There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. Harnlet, Act v. Scene 2. In the following lines there is a clear allusion to Psalm cxlvii. 9, “ He feedeth the young ravens that call upon Him — And He that doth the ravens feed. Yea. providentially caters for the sparrow. Be comfort to my age ! As You Like It, Act ii. Scene 3. The Fool in “ King Lear ” reminds us that it is in the hedge-sparrow’s nest that the cuckoo frequently deposits her egg : — For you know, nuncle. The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long. That it had its head bit off by its young. King Lear, Act i. Scene 4. The popular notion referred to in “ King Lear,” is again mentioned by Worcester in “King Henry IV.,” Part I.— And, being fed by us, you used us so As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird, Useth the sparrow ; did oppress our nest. Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk. That even our love durst not come near your sight. For fear of swallowing. Act V. Scene i. And again : — Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud. Or hateful cuckoo hatch in sparrows’ nests ? Lucrece. The habits of the cuckoo must always be as much a marvel to us as its remarkable voice : — He knows me, as the blind man knows the cuckoo. By the bad voice. Merchant of Venice, Act v. Scene i . The plain-song cuckoo grey, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer. Nay ; for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird ? who would give a bird the lie, though he cry “ Cuckoo !” never so ? Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act iii. Scene i. King Henry IV., alluding to his predecessor, says, — So, when he had occasion to be seen. He was but as the cuckoo is in June, Heard, not regarded. King Henry IV., Part I., Act iii. Scene 2. Shakespeare did not forget even the wagtail. In an opprobrious sense, the word “ wagtail ” would doubtless denote a pert, flippant fellow. Kent, in “ King Lear,” Act ii. Scene 2, says, — Spare my grey beard, you wagtail 1 “ The early village cock,” “ Richard HI.,” Act v. Scene 3, “The trumpet to the morn,” “Hamlet”, Act i. Scene t, is often noticed by Shakespeare. In the prologue to the fourth act of “ King Henry V.” — The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll. And the third hour of drowsy morning name. The conversation of Bernardo, Horatio, and Mar- cellus, on the subject of Hamlet’s Ghost, affords a good illu.stration of the popular notion of a phantom disappearing at cockcrow : — Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew. Hor. And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn. Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day ; and, at his warning. Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, The extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine : and of the truth herein This present object made probation. Alar. It faded 00 the crowing of the cock. Some say, that ever ’gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated. This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow’d and so gracious is the time. Hamlet, Act i. Scene 1. The peacock is thus noticed : — Let frantic Talbot triumph for awhile. And like a peacock sweep along his tail ; We’ll pull his plumes, and take away his train. King Henry VI., Part I., Act iii. Scene 3. T Life of Shakespeare, 138 And — Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock, a stride and a stand. Troilus and Crcssida, Act iii. Scene 3. He introduces the turkey in the play of “King Henry IV.,” Part I., Act ii. Scene i, thus: — First Carrier. Odsbody ! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved. What, ostler ! Though turkeys were unknown in England until the later reign of Henry VIII. And again : — Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him ; how he jets under his advanced plumes. Twelfth Night, Act ii. Scene 5. The pigeon and the dove are very frequently men- tioned. So also the goose. Shakespeare draws a distinction between a grass-fed and a stubble-fed goose : — The spring is near, when green geese are a breeding. Lovds Labour's Lost, Act i. Scene i. Launce, enumerating the various occasions on which he had befriended his dog, says, — 1 have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered fodt. Two Gentletnen of Verona, Act iv. Scene 4. The swan, being identified with Orpheus, and called also the bird of Apollo, the god of music, powers of song have been often attributed to it, and as often denied : — I will play the swan, and die in music. Othello, Act V. Scene 2. A swan-like end, fading in music. Merchant of Venice, Act iii. Scene 2. Prince Henry, at his father’s deathbed, exclaims, — ’Tis strange that death should sing ! I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan. Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death ; And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, sings His soul and body to their lasting rest. King John, Act v. Scene 7. Again, in “ Lucrece — And now this pale swan, in her watery nest, Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending. The swallow and its near relative the martin are often alluded to : — This guest of summer. The temple-haunting martlet, doth approve By his lov’d masonry, that the heaven’s breath Smells wooingly here ; no jutty, frieze. Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle. WTiere they most breed and haunt, I have observed The air is delicate. Macbeth, Act i. Scene 6. And again, in the “ Merchant of Venice,” Act ii. Scene 9 : — The martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall. Even in the force and road of casualty. Merchant of Venice, Act ii. Scene 9. Shakespeare alludes to the fable of the pelican feeding her young with her own blood. Laertes says, — To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms; And, like the kind life-rend’ring pelican. Repast them with my blood. Ha 7 nlet, Act iv. Scene 5. King Lear likens himself to a pelican when speaking of his ungrateful children : — Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers Should have thus little mercy on their flesh ? Judicious punishment ! ’Twas this flesh begot Those pelican daughters. King Lear, Act iii. Scene 4. Once only does he mention the pheasant. In the “ Winter’s Tale — Clown {jokingly aside to Shepherd). Advocate’s the court word for a pheasant : say you have none. Shepherd. N one, sir ; I have no pheasant, cock, nor hen. Act iv. Scene 3. It was formerly the practice to keep quails, and make them fight like gamecocks. Solon directed that quails should be made to fight in the presence of the Athenian youths, in order to inflame their courage, and the Romans held quail fighting in still higher estimation. Augustus punished a prefect of Egypt with death for buying and bringing to table a quail which had acquired celebrity by its victories. Shake- speare alluded to this sport when he wrote : — Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails. Troilus and Cressida, Act v. Scene i. In “Antony and Cleopatra,” Antonius says of Caesar, — His cocks do win the battle still of mine, When it is all to nought ; and his quails ever Beat mine, inhoop’d, at odds. Act ii. Scene 3. Shakespeare, in his minute observance, did not pass over the peculiar trait in the lapwing. It has a habit of trying to. draw intruders away from its nest or young by fluttering along the ground in an opposite direction, or by feigning lameness, or uttering melan- choly cries at a distance : — Far from her nest the lapwing cries away. Comedy of Errors, Act iv. Scene 2. And in “ Much Ado about Nothing — For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, nins Close by the ground, to hear our conference. Act iii. Scene 2. It is curious that he has not alluded to this bird 139 Shakespeare s Knowledge of Horticulture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rural Life. under its popular name of “ peewit,” a name which, derived from its cry, is of antiquity. The young of this and many other species run almost as soon as hatched, a peculiarity not overlooked : — This lapwing runs away with the shell on his hea^. Hamlet, Act v. Scene 2. The woodcock was supposed to have no brains, and its name was synonymous for a fool. It is to this Claudio alludes : — Shall I not find a woodcock, too ? Much Ado about Nothing, Act v. Scene i. O this woodcock ! what an ass it is. Taming of the Shrew, Act i. Scene 2. In Shakespeare’s day the woodcock’s head, on account of its shape, was a fashionable term for a tobacco pipe. It is very remarkable that while Shake- speare’s contemporary, Ben Jonson, has founded whole scenes upon the practice of smoking, he himself has made no mention of it. Now smoking was in general use long before Shakespeare left London, and he | drew his manners almost entirely from his own age, 1 making mention of masks, false hair, pomanders, and fardingales, all of which were introduced about the I same time. We are told by the old writer Thornbury, | “ those who loved smoking sat on the slate stools, j with their three sorts of tobacco, and their lights by them, handing matches on the points of their swords, or sending out their pages for real Trinidado. They actually practised smoking under professors, who taught them tricks ; and the intelligence offices were not more frequented, no, nor the pretty seamstresses’ shops at the Exchange, than the new tobacco office.” Shakespeare, it is evident, abjured “ the weed.” The snipe is mentioned only in “ Othello.” lago, alluding to Roderigo, says, — For I mine own gain’d knowledge should profane, I If I would time expend with such a snipe, But for my sport and profit. Act i. Scene 3. The caution and shyness of the wild duck, construed into cowardice, is alluded to in “ Henry IV.,” Part I. ; — Falstaff. There is no more valour in that Poins than in a wild duck. Act ii. Scene 2. The dialogue between Malvolio and the Clown in “ Twelfth Night,” concerning wild fowl, has reference to the theory of Pythagoras on the subject of the transmigration of .souls : — Clown. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild- fowl ? Malvolio. That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird. Clown. What thinkest thou of his opinion ? Malvolio. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion. Clown. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness : thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras, ere I will allow of thy wits ; and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well. Act iv. Scene 2. The doctrine of Pythagoras is again alluded to by Gratiano, who says, — Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras, That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men. Mercha 7 it of Venice, Act iv. Scene i. The diver and grebe, both known under the name “ loon,” the dive dapper, the cormorant, the gull, the sea mell, the kingfisher, are all spoken of. The starling’s talking powers are thus referred to ; — Nay, I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him To keep his anger still in motion. King Henry IV, Part I., Act i. Scene 3. It was formerly believed that during the time the halcyon or kingfisher was engaged in hatching her eggs, the water, in kindness to her, remained so smooth and calm, that the mariner might venture on the sea with the happy certainty of not being exposed to storms or tempests ; this period was therefore called, by Pliny and Aristotle, “ the halcyon days — Expect St. Martin’s summer, halcyon days. King Henry PT., Part I., Act i. Scene 2. In the Third Part of “King Henry VI.,” Shakespeare has drawn largely on his acquaintance with Rural Life, especially in the speech of King Henry in the midst of the confusion and horrors of a battle, in which he contrasts the quietude and peacefulness of pastoral life This battle fares like to the morning’s war. When dying clouds contend with growing light ; What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails. Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. * * * * O God ! methinks it were a happy life. To be no better than a homely swain ; To sit upon a hill as I do now ; To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run ; How many make the hour full complete ; How many hours bring about the day ; How many days will finish up the year ; How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times : So many hours must I tend my flock ; So many hours must I take my rest ; So many hours must I contemplate ; So many hours must I sport myself ; So many days my ewes have been with young ; So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; So many days ere I shall shear the fleece : So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years. Pass’d over to the end tliey were created. Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. T 2 140 Life of Shakespeare. Ah ! what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy To kings, that fear their subjects’ treachery ? O, yes it doth ; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude, — the shepherd’s homely curds, His thin cold drink out of his leather bottle. His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade. All which secure and sweetly he enjoys. Is far beyond a prince’s delicates. His viands sparkling in a golden cup. His body couchM in a curious bed. When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him. Act. ii. Scene 5. “As You Like It,” heretofore referred to, is full of pastoral sketches, as : — I am shepherd to another man. And do not shear the fleeces that I graze ; My master is of churlish disposition. And little recks to find the way to heaven By doing deeds of hospitality : Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed. Are now on sale, and at our sheepcote now. By reason of his absence, there is nothing That you will feed on, &c. Act ii. Scene 4. Touchstone, in the same act and scene, .says, — 1 remember when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming anight to Jane Smile : and I remember the kissing of her batlet ; and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopp’d hands had milk’d : and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from which I took two cods ; and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears, Wear these for tny sake. The Masque in “The Tempest,” Act iv. Scene i, affords a good example of the easy and almost redundant manner in which Shakespeare pours forth rural pictures and scenery from a richly stored mind : — Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease ; Thy turfy mountains where live nibbling sheep. And flat meads thatch’d with stover them to keep ; Thy banks with peonied and lilied brims. Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, T o make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; and thy broom groves. Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves. Being lass-lorn ; thy pale-clipt vineyard ; .-\nd thy sea-marge, steril, and rocky-hard. Which thou thyself dost air. How many eat their daily bread without any notion of how it is made ! How few know the processes necessary to convert the wheat into the loaf ready for the table ! The business of the baker is not needed to be understood by people living in towns ; but necessity demands that in farm-houses the art be one of the foremost for the daily requirements of the household. Here is evidence of seeing, noticing, and remembering all the details : — Pandarus. Well, I have told you enough of this : for my part I’ll not meddle nor make no further. He, that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the baking. Troilus. Have I not tarried? Pandarus. Ay, the grinding ; but you must tarry the bolting. Troilus. Have I not tarried? Pandarus. Ay, the bolting ; but you must tarry the leavening. Troibis. Still have I tarried. Patidarus. Ay, to the leavening ; but here’s yet in the word — hereafter, the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the baking ; nay, you must stay the cooling, too, or you may chance to burn your lips. Troilus and Cressida, Act i. Scene i. See the great and comprehensive acquaintance with nature in the soliloquy of Friar Laurence : — Now ere the sun advance his burning eye. The day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry, I must up-fill this osier cage of ours. With baleful weeds and precious-juicM flowers. The earth, that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb ; What is her burying grave, that is her womb And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find ; Many for many virtues excellent. None but for some, and yet all different. O, mickle is the powerful grace, that lies In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities : For naught so vile that on the earth doth live. But to the earth some special good doth give ; Nor aught so good, but strain’d from that fair use. Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse : Virtue itself turns vicq, being misapplied ; And vice sometime’s by action dignified. Within the infant mind of this small flower Poison hath residence, and med’eine power ; For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part ; Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed foes encamp them still. In man, as well as herbs, grace, and rude will ; And, where the worser is predominant. Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. Romeo and Juliet, Act ii. Scene 3. Turn to “Venus and Adonis” for vigorous and truthful descriptions of the horse, the boar, and the hare : — Round hoof’d, short -jointed, fetlocks shag and bony. Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide. High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong. Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide ; Look what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back. ***** On his bow-back he hath a battle set Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes ; His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth threat ; His snout digs sepulchres where’er he goes ; Being moved, he strikes whate’er is in his way ; And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay. His brawny sides, with hairy’ bristles arm’d. Are better proof than thy spear’s point can enter ; His short, thick neck, cannot be easily harm’d ; Being ireful, on the lion he will venture ! The thorny brambles and embracing bushes. As fearful of him, part ; through whom he rushes. ***** But if thou needs will hunt, be ruled by me ; Uncouple at the timorous flying hare. Or at the fox, which lives by subtilty'. Or at the roe, which no encounter dare : Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs. And on thy well-breathed horse keep with thy hounds. Shakespeare' s Knowledge of Horticulture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Riiral Life. 141 And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch, to overshut his troubles. How he out-runs the wind ; and with what care He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles : The many musits through the which he goes. Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes. Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep, To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell ; And sometime where earth-delving conies keep, To stop the loud pursuers in their yell ; And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer ; Danger deviseth shifts ; wit waits on fear. For there his smell with others being mingled. The hot scent-snufflng hounds are driven to doubt ; Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled With much ado the cold fault cleanly out ; Then do they spend their mouths : Echo replies. As if another chase were in the skies. By this poor Wat, far-off upon a hill, Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear. To hearken if his foes pursue him still ; Anon their loud alarums he doth hear ; And now his grief may be compared well To one sore sick that hears the passing bell. Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch Turn, and return, indenting with the way ; Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch. Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay. For misery is trodden on by many. And, being low, never relieved by any. All these pictures are drawn from nature. That of the hunted hare reveals a perfect knowledge of the habits of the animal when hunted by hounds, described with minute finish and exquisite feeling. From numerous passages in his works, we infer Shakespeare knew the sea in calm and in storm ; and he seems to have known much of shipping. There is certainly not wanting a peculiar kind of evidence, arising from words, expressions, and allusions to customs, which tends towards conjecture of his having been in Germany. Confining, for the present, our inquiries to England, it can be tolerably well proved from his writings that he had visited Kent. The description he has given of the cliffs near Dover is so true and so complete, that it is almost impossible to suppose it could have been written except as the result of personal observation. Test it by walking along the heights from Folkestone to Dover, and the con- viction will be irresistible. The cliff and the dwarfed objects beneath it are so vividly described, that one feels a sickening and dizzy sensation, involuntarily say- ing with Edgar, “ Fll look no more, lest my brain turn.” Edgar. Come on, sir ; here’s the place : stand still. How fearful And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low ! The crows, and choughs, that wing the midway air. Show scarce so gross as beetles : half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadful trade ! Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head : The fishermen, that walk upon the beach. Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark, Diminish’d to her cock ; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight : the murmuring surge. That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high : I’ll look no more. Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. # * * # * Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, St) many fathom down precipitating. Thou hadst shiver’d like an egg : ***** Ten masts at each make not the altitude. Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Gloster. But have I fallen, or no ? Edgar. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn : Look up a-height : the shrill gorged lark so far Cannot be seen or heard. Act iv. Scene 6. In the same scene Lear calls for the pass- word, and Edgar replies, “Sweet Marjoram.” Now “sweet marjoram ” is not introduced here by chance, but from the immense quantities of this herb formerly growing upon the heights between Folkestone and Dover, which Shakespeare when writing remembered, and appropriately gave to the demented king wander- ing in the district where prolific growth made sweet marjoram a feature in the scener)^ The First Part of “King Henry IV.” presents scenes at Rochester and its vicinity which, in minute circum- stances, are so appropriately filled, that they compel us to infer the presence of Shakespeare in the locality. Rochester is selected as the resting-place for carriers and travellers on the London road towards the metro- polis ; and such it was when travelling was attended with difficulties unknown at the present day. The Carriers, who open the first scene of the second act, have to rise early in order to make good their journey to London in one day : we may surmise they had come from Sandwich or Canterbury, or from the Weald. The former places and their distances from Rochester would be known to every one ; but not so the Weald ; and it is from this comparatively lonely district that Shakespeare brings the P'ranklin who lodged at Rochester in the same inn with the carriers on the night before the robbery at Gadshill. The chamberlain of the inn says, “There’s a P'ranklin in the wild of Kent, hath brought three hundred marks with him in gold. I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at supper ; a kind of auditor ; one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what. They are up already, and call for eggs and butter : they will away presently.” It was a matter of neces- sity for the Franklin riding to London from the Weald to travel by way of Rochester, and to rest there. It is one of these correct delineations of local circum- stances which, like the picture of the clifif at Dover, infer personal acquaintance. The next scene is laid in the road by Gadshill, Life of Shakespeare. 142 between two and three miles from Rochester. This road, lonely, hilly, and wooded on each side, was, in former times, noted for robberies. The robbery by Falstaff and his companions was committed before daybreak in the morning ; and this is consistent with the distance from Rochester in connexion with the Franklin and the Carriers leaving their inn so early in the morning. Concluding from these plays that Shakespeare had visited Kent, it may be imagined that the words he puts into the mouth of Lord Say were in some degree chosen or strengthened by his own good opinion of the county : — Kent, in the commentaries Cmsar writ. Is term’d the civil’st place of all this isle : Sweet is the country, because full of riches : The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy. King He?try VI., Part II., Act iv. Scene 7. i We may be sure Byron’s “ Insect Queen of Eastern j Spring ” was Shakespeare’s in the endless varieties his i loved Warwickshire afforded. The most admired of all the insect tribe, they supplied him with many images ! pregnant with instruction, and grouped with an ex- ! pression and variety which no artist could embody, | who did not, like him, possess an equal knowledge of the conduct and the heart of man. Thus it is introduced in the reflection of Achilles, when the Grecian lords, in “ Troilus and Cressida,” pass by him, and “ either greet him or else disdainfully — What the declined is He shall as soon read in the eyes of others, As feel in his own fall ; for men, like butterflies, Show not their mealy wings, but to the summer. Act iii. Scene 3. In expanse of wing and beauty of colouring they stand unrivalled. Some are scarcely distinguishable from the leaves of plants or the trunks of trees on which they repose ; others are of the most unsullied white. Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls to earth. Some exhibit gorgeous metallic hues ; and others display an azure equal in its intensity to that of the summer sky at noon. Nor are the markings of their wings and bodies less varied or less attractive. Lines, dots, circles, triangles, parallelograms, may there be noticed, mingled in endless variety, and showing, that I even in her most playful freaks, the colouring of nature is at all times beautiful. But the butterfly has - a charm superior to all its external claims to admi- ; ration. It is among insects, what the primrose is - amongst flowers — the prize of our childhood, and the object of our boyish exertion. What “young hunter * of the butterfly and bee ” does not recollect how eagerly it was pursued "i A tumble over some con- 1 cealed ditch is disregarded ; the object of pursuit is | neared, — it is struck down on the grass, — the rim of 1 the hat is slowly raised, — and oh ! how proud to find the captive safe and unharmed within ! But, alas ! such delights are transitory. The prisoner, by one vigorous dart, may regain his freedom ; or, if retained in durance; soon loses a portion of his beauty. The wings, touched by the fingers, part with some of their colouring, and justify the propriety of Shakespeare’s epithet of “mealy.” If, however, this “ mealy” sub- stance be examined under a lens, it will be found not to consist of fine dust, but of minute scales, preserving a regular and peculiar form, and differing in the dif- ferent families. It is from the circumstance of the wings being thus covered with scales, that the term Lepidoptera has been employed to express the distinguishing characteristic of the order to which the different kinds of butterflies, sphinxes, and moths belong. The flight of the butterfly has not been passed by Shakespeare unnoticed or unrecorded. When Valeria visits Virgilia during the absence of Coriolanus, she asks, “ How does your little son and her question having been answered, she proceeds in the strain most likely to gratify his mother, “ O’ my word, the father’s son ; I’ll swear ’tis a very pretty boy. O’ my troth, I looked upon him o’ Wednesday half an hour together. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly ; and when he caught it, he let it go again ; and after it again, and over and over he comes, and up again ; catch’d it again ; or whether his fall enraged him, or how ’twas, he did so set his teeth, and tear it. O, I warrant, how he mammock’d it ! ” Act i. Scene 3. The determination and absence of all fear which boys evince in the pursuit has supplied a forcible simile at the time when Marcius, joined with the Volscians, is approaching Rome with the irresistible fury of a conqueror : — He is their god ; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than nature. That shapes man better ; and they follow him. Against us brats, with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies, Or butchers killing flies. Act iv. Scene 6. Butterflies are to be found early in spring, summer, and autumn, and one, at least, with the chrysanthe- mums of winter. It is strange, that beings so fragile should be found at a season so inclement ; but He who has constructed the snowdrop so as to bear, uninjured, the drifting storms of February, has enabled a small, darkish coloured moth to endure the rigour of December. Caterpillars have furnished Shakespeare on many occasions with appropriate metaphors. Thus the creatures of Richard are termed by Bolingbroke “ the caterpillars of the commonwealth,” (“ King Richard II.,” Act ii. Scene 4,) and the Duke of York’s reflection on the destruction of his hopes, is — Shakespeare s Knowledge of Horticulture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rural Life. 143 Hamlet and the trifling of his favour, Act i. Scene 3. Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud, And caterpillars eat my leaves away. King Henry VI., Part II., Act iii. Scene i. “ False caterpillars ” is the epithet bestowed by Jack Cade and his “ragged multitude” upon their opponents. Shakespeare has employed his knowledge to illus- trate the altered condition of Coriolanus, when from a Roman general he had become the invincible leader of the Volscians in their progress against his native city, “ Is’t possible,” asks Sicinius, “ that so short a time can alter the condition of a man.^” and most justly is he answered by Menenius : “There is a difference between a grub and a butterfly, yet your butterfly was a grub.” Act v. Scene 4. Almost every one has noticed the destruction of clothes, furs, and tapestry by the larvae of minute moths {Tineidce). It is not to be supposed, therefore, that the all-seeing eye of Shakespeare should pass unnoticed so ordinary an occurrence. We accordingly find reference made to it in more than one instance. Thus Borachio, in “ Much Ado about Nothing,” speaks of “ the smirch’d moth-eaten tapestry and when the visitor of Virgilia is wishing her to “lay aside her stitchery, and play the idle housewife,” she tauntingly says, “You would be another Penelope; yet they say all the yarn she spun in Ulysses’ absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths.” “Coriolanus,” Act i. Scene 3. There is another insect of the same family whose choice of a dwelling evinces a more refined luxurious- ness, if, indeed, we are warranted in making use, even metaphorically, of such a term, when to every insect the food destined for its support is that which is most grateful to its palate. The larva {Lozotcenia rosana) passes by the “ smirch’d tapestry,” and chooses for its domicile “ the fresh lap of the crimson rose.” It there lives among the blossoms, and prevents the possibility of their further development. The stop thus put to the ordinary course of vegetation must early have excited the attention of all rosarians, and hence we find — The bud bit with an envious worm Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the same— Rojneo and Juliet, Act i. Scene r. has been a favourite object of comparison. In the mouth of Viola it becomes one of the most touching images that poet ever employed : — She never told her love ; But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud. Feed on her damask cheek. Tiueljth Night, Act ii. Scene i. In many other passages “ the worm ” is either alluded to, or mentioned as “ the canker.” Thus, when Laertes is cautioning Ophelia against his words are — The canker galls the infants of the spring. Too oft, before their buttons be disclosed. Among the enumeration given by Titania of the duties of her fairy attendants — To kill cankers in the musk-rose buds — Midsnimner Night's Dream, Act ii. Scene 3. holds a prominent place ; and when in the opening scene of the “Two Gentlemen of Verona,” Proteus is defending himself against the raillery of his friend Valentine, the image which he employs is skilfully turned against himself. Proteus. Yet writers say. As in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all. Valentine. And writers say. As the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love, the young and tender wit Is turn’d to folly : blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime. Act i. Scene i. The larvce yet mentioned are all of them destructive in some degree, either to that species of property comprised in the vegetable kingdom, or that which constitutes the raiment of our persons, or the furni- ture of our apartments ; and so far they are all repre- sented as injurious to man. One, however, is casually introduced, whose labours may be considered as out- weighing, by the advantages they produce, the injuries which all the others may occasionally inflict. It is the larva of a moth, the silkworm. The produce of its cocoon was at one period considered so valuable', as to be estimated in Imperial Rome at its weight in gold, and even now it gives employment to many thousand individuals, and forms an important branch of our national manufactures. Othello, in the cele- brated scene where he demands “ the handkerchief,” venerated as the dying gift of his mother, and en- dowed with supernatural virtues by “an Egyptian,” mentions the insect thus : — The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk. Act iii. Scene 4. In two passages Shakespeare mentions a nut with no kernel. In the first passage the words are em- ployed figuratively, to denote the absence of real worth in the character of Parolles : — There can be no kernel in this light nut. All's Well that Ends Well, Act ii. Scene 5. In the other they are used to imply a want of under- standing. 144 Life of Shakespeare. Ther sites. Hector shall have a great catch if he knock out either of your brains : 'a were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel. — Troilus and Cressida, Act ii. Scene i. That Shakespeare was cognizant of The red-capp’d worm that’s shut Within the concave of a nut Herrick’s Hesperides. is apparent from the phrase in “ As You Like It,” “ as concave as a worm-eaten nut” (Act iii. Scene 4), and also from the passage in which he describes the equipage of Queen Mab : — Her chariot is an empty hazel nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies’ coachmaker. Romeo and Juliet, Act i. Scene 4. The “ old grub ” here mentioned by the poet as causing the vacuity in the shell is the larva of a weevil {Balaninus nucuni). The mother is furnished with a long horny beak, and while the nut is yet soft, drills a hole through the shell, deposits an egg, and thus furnishes its future offspring with a house for its defence, and food for its support. In the passages quoted, the word worm is not applied to the object to which we usually give the name, the common earth-worm {Ltimbricus terrcstris), but to the larva of some species of insect. It is in this sense that the word is almost invariably employed by Shakespeare. Thus, when Hamlet says, “your worm is your only emperor for diet,” the meaning of the word worm is evident from the remainder of the passage : “ We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.” In one instance, however, the word worm denotes some species of venomous reptile ; for Cleopatra asks the countryman who brings her “ the aspick,” “ Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus here, that kills and pains not V' and some commentators have attributed ,a similar meaning to the words used by the disguised Duke when addressing Claudio : — Thou art by no means valiant, For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm. Measure for Measure, Act iii. Scene i. It seems probable that in this instance, and in the line — Worm nor snail do no offence — Midsummer Night's Dream, Act ii. Scene 3. the common earth-worm is the creature alluded to. The word worm occurs again in the enumeration by the witches in “ Macbeth,” of “ the ingredients of our cauldron.” Shakespeare employs the u^ord “ moth” to denote something trifling or extremely minute ; and a doubt may be entertained whether, in some passages, he intended any reference to the insect. Thus, in the touching appeal of Prince Arthur to Hubert : — Arthur. Is there no remedy ? Hubert. None ; but to lose your eyes. Arthur. Oh Heaven ! that there were but a moth in yours ; A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense ! Then, feeling what small things are boist’rous there. Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. King John, Act iv. Scene i . In the same manner we have, — A 7 noth will turn the balance. Midsuimner Night's Dream, Act v. Scene i. And in “ King Henry V.,” — Wash every moth out of his conscience. Act i. Scene 4. It is an unaccountable fact, that the night-flying insects, which shun the glare of the sunshine and delight in darkness, should yet be so strongly attracted by a light, as not only to hover around it, but even to fly into the flame. The practice is, however, so general, though so inexplicable, that when Portia says, — Thus hath the candle singed the moth — Merchant of Vetiice, Act ii. Scene 9. she uses an illustration with which every one is familiar, and mentions an action which the spectator cannot behold without his sympathy being disagree- ably, if not painfully, excited. Our great poet was a grand bee-master. He knew all that we now know about her majesty, the drones, and the workers. Thus the lines — Like stinging bees in hottest summer’s day. Led by their master to the flower’d fields — Titus Andronicus, Act v. Scene i. recognize the first ; Drones hive not with me — the second ; and any one of the numerous passages describing their labours show his knowledge of the third. So work the honey bees ; Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king, and officers of sorts : Where some, like magistrates, correct at home ; Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad ; Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings. Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds ; Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor : Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold ; The civil citizens kneading up the honey ; The poor mechanick porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate ; The sad-eyed justice with his surly hum. Delivering o’er to executors pale The lazy yawning drone. King Henry V., Act i. Scene 2. A description poetical in the highest degree, and pleasing alike to the ear and the imagination. In it, without any effort, tve have a rich and glowing picture. Shakespeare' s Knowledge of H or liculltire, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rural Life. 145 The artist, with his accustomed skill, has o’erstepped not the modesty of nature ; and yet the simile is sus- stained, animated, and vigorous throughout. It is the queen bee that regulates the industry and preserves the equilibrium of the denizens of the hive ; and to her Shakespeare, like the ancients, invariably applies a male epithet. When by any accident she is destroyed the social compact appears for a time to be dissolved, anarchy and disorder succeed to the former regular and systematic exertion, and a strange and fiery excitement pervades the whole population. Most correctly, therefore, does Shakespeare introduce the comparison — The commons, like a hive of angry bees That want their leader, scatter up and down. King Henry IV, Part II., Act iii. Scene 2. The drones are the males of the community, destroyed by the workers when no longer required, but preserved uninjured while the welfare of the hive requires the continuance of their existence. Shakespeare’s knowledge of bees was not limited to the three kinds which constitute the “ buzzing pleased multitude ” found in our bee-hives ; he has noticed those which are solitary in their habits, as well as those which are social. Thus we find in “ All’s Well that Ends Well ” the “ red-tailed humble bee,” a kind | which nidificates among heaps of stones. The humble bee is introduced on another occasion, when Bottom, in the “ Midsummer Night’s Dream,” is giving orders to his fairy attendants. The playful and sportive fancy which reigns in these commands is inimitable ; and the diminutive stature of Cobweb is well indicated j by the fear that he should be “ overflown with a honey bag.” The “ bag o’ the bee ” is, in fact, the first stomach of the insect. Into it the liquid honey which is col- lected by the tongue flows, after passing through the mouth and oesophagus. It is a membranous j receptacle, capable of considerable distension, and i exhibiting a different aspect, according to the quantity it contains of that saccharine fluid, which is there converted into honey. Next to “the bag o’ the bee,” we naturally notice the products derived from the labours of the same insect. These are principally wax and honey, both of which are mentioned by Shakespeare. The former is brought forward as being the material employed for the sealing, not of letters only, but of bonds and other legal instruments. Thus Cade, after having declared that he will “ make it felony to drink small beer,” says, — Is not this a lamentable thing, that the skin of an innocent i lamb should be made of parchment, and that parchment being | scribbled o’er, should undo a man. Some say the bee stings ; i but I say ’tis the bee’s wax : for I did but seal once to a thing, and j I was never my own man since. King Henry VI., Part II., Act iv. Scene 2. When Edgar has overcome the steward of Goneril, he takes from his pockets the letters confided to his charge ; and as he breaks the seal, he justifies to him- self the act he is committing : — Leave, gentle wax, and manners, blame us not ; To know our enemies’ minds we’d rip their hearts ; Their papers are more lawful. King Lear, Act iv. Scene 6. It is again mentioned when Imogen — the fond and faithful Imogen — receives a letter from her lord Leonatus ; her words are — Good wax, thy leave, — blest be You bees, that make these locks of counsel ! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike ; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Cymbcline, Act iii. Scene 2. The sealing-wax we now employ consists of lac and resin, combined with some suitable pigment for giving it the desired colour. This lac is itself an insect product, being secreted by a species of coccus common in the East Indies. No portion of beeswax enters into the composition of the material now used for sealing letters. It forms the principal ingredient of the soft and colourless wax attached to letters patent under the Great Seal, or to charters of corporations, and public documents of a similar character ; but “ the lover, sighing like furnace,” never confides his sorrows to the custody of the bee’s wax. The researches of modern times have ascertained a remarkable fact relative to the formation of this substance, namely, that it is secreted by bees difierent from those which attend to the feeding of the young ; or, in other words, the working bees, which were formerly supposed to be all alike, may be divided into two classes— wax-workers and nurses. For our knowledge on this subject, we are prin- cipally indebted to the observations of a blind man, the elder Huber, who made the study of bees the occupation and solace of many years of visual dark- ness. This he was enabled to do by the untiring attention of his wife, who faithfully recounted the phenomena which glass hives, variously constructed, enabled her to witness. He saw by means of her eyes, and in his experiments he was assisted by a patient investigator, M. Burnens. From Huber we learn that wax is not collected from flowers, as was formerly supposed, but is secreted by the wax-workers by means of peculiar organs, which meiy easily be seen by pressing the abdomen so as to cause its distension. It is not, however, a secretion that is constantly going on ; it is one which takes place only when wax is required for the construction of the comb. To siq^ply it, the wax-workers are obliged to feed on honey, and to remain inactive, generally suspended from the top u 146 Life of Shakespeare. of the hive, for about twenty-four hours previous to the deposition of the wax. What we read, therefore, of the bee collecting wax and carrying it to the hive is fabulous. The error originated in the pollen with which bees are so frequently laden, and which forms the bee bread of the community, being mistaken for two little pellets of wax, which the industrious insect was supposed to have gathered. Shakespeare, as might be expected, has adopted the universal, though incorrect, opinion of his day. In the line, therefore, Our thighs are pack’d with wax — we recognize one of those instances where the knowledge of the present time can be contrasted advantageously with that of the past. It seems so busy and so happy, that the delicate Ariel found no stronger image to denote his own enjoyment than the expression — Where the bee sucks, there suck I. Te 7 Hpest, Act v. Scene i. Strictly speaking the bee does not suck the honey from flowers, but collects it by means of his tongue, which is furnished with a contrivance for that pur- pose, not unlike a brush, or a round plate, fringed with hair. The tongue is so admirably fitted for “ visiting every corner of the nectaries of flowers,” that it has been supposed bees can obtain their contents without being obliged to use their mandibles for cutting a passage into the blossoms. The passages in which the working bees are mentioned by Shakespeare are very numerous. The working bees, however, are not the only ones alluded to. In the “ Midsummer Night’s Dream,” when Bottom, the weaver, in the character of an ass. With amiable cheeks and fair large ears, is giving orders to his new attendants, he makes use of the following words : — Monsieur Cobweb, good Monsieur, get your weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hip’d humble-bee on the top of a thistle ; and good Monsieur, bring me the honey bag. — Act iv. Scene i. Shakespeare, above all other writers, seems to possess a plastic power of moulding every object of nature to his will, of constructing the little and the great alike to do his “ spiriting gently,” of finding Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks. Sermons in stones, and good in everything. As You Like It, Act ii. Scene i. Honey is oft a sweet word with him. When, in the English camp at Agincourt, King Henry V., after the just and profound reflection — There is some soul of goodness in things evil. Would men observingly distil it out — illustrates his meaning still further by the observation — Thus we may gather honey from the weed. King Henry V., Act iv. Scene i. When Friar Lawrence is waiting in his cell for the arrival of Juliet, and is endeavouring to control the transport of the expecting Romeo, he well remarks — The sweetest honey Is loathsome in its own deliciousness. And in the taste confounds the appetite ; Therefore love moderately. Romeo and yuliet, Act ii. Scene 5. And in the scene where Ophelia has borne the strange and ungentle language of Hamlet, “ Get thee to a nunnery,” after her first thought, with all a woman’s fondness, has been given to his mental aberration — O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown ! she deplores her own condition in the words — And I of ladies most abject and wretched, That suck’d the honey of his music vows. Act iii. Scene 2. In the same manner the word is employed by Romeo, on his descent into the Monument where lies the “ living corse” of the “ fair Juliet:” — O my love ! my wife ! Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath. Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Act V. Scene 3. Not content with using the word both in a literal and in a metaphorical sense, the poet has interwoven it into several endearing epithets, as “ honey-love,” “honey-nurse,” &c. ; and in “Julius Caesar” the still more euphonious expression — Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber. Act ii. Scene i. The admirable symmetry and regularity of the combs had been closely observed by him, and their form is almost that which a mathematician would select to combine the greatest extent of accom- modation and greate^st strength with the smallest expenditure of material. The cells are arranged so close together, and in a manner so skilful, that no space is lost between them. The knowledge of the fact, that there are no vacant spaces between the cells gives increased effect to the words of Prospero when he replies to the imprecations of Caliban : — Thou shall be pinch’d As thick as honey-combs : each pinch more sting in g Than bees that made ’em. Te?npest, Act i. Scene 2. This passage refers to their power of stinging. Of this fact almost every one has, at some time or other, had painful experience. Shakespeare says, — Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing. Till she hath lost her honey and her sting ; — Troilus and Cressida, Act v. Scene 1 1. a couplet which leads to the inference that the poet Shakespeare' s Knowledge of Horticulture, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rural Life. 147 was well aware of these insects losing their sting, by being unable to retract it from the wound they have inflicted. In the sarcasms to which Brutus and Cassius give utterance against Antony, the same topic is thus introduced ; — Cas. The posture of your blows are yet unknown ; But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, And leave them honeyless. Ant. Not stingless too — Bru. O yes, and soundless too ; F or you have stol’n their buzzing, Antony, And very wisely threat before you sting. Ju litis Ccesar, Act v. Scene i. From the numerous passages in which the bee is introduced, we recognize that the bee was a favourite with Shakespeare. It has certainly furnished him with numerous similes, and what is rather remarkable in a writer possessed of such varied powers of illustra- tion, he has caused it to be twice mentioned by King Henry IV. in the course of one scene — first, when meditating on the wild and riotous life pursued by the Prince ; and, secondly, when he supposes that the anxiety felt by his son for the crown had caused its removal from his pillow : — How quickly nature falls into revolt, When gold becomes her object. For this, the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleeps with thought, their brains with care. When, like the bee, tolling from every flower The virtuous sweets, Our thighs are pack’d with wax, our mouths with honey : We bring it to the hive ; and, like the bees. Are murder’d for our pains.” King Henry IV., Part II., Act iv. Scene 4. The mode in which this murder is committed is indi- cated by Shakespeare in another passage. Talbot is giving vent to his surprise and vexation at the English troops being repulsed by Joan of Arc: — As bees with smoke, and doves with noisome stench. Are from their hives and houses driven away. King Henry VI., Part I., Act i. Scene v. The wasp too : he knew that, like the bee, it lives in communities, and that both construct hexagonal cells in which their young are reared ; and that both labour with untiring perseverance for their support. He knew that extreme irascibility can scarcely be expressed by a stronger term than “ waspish.” It is, accordingly, in this sense we find him applying the epithet, “ her waspish-headed son,” when we are told, in “The Tempest,” that Cupid is resolved to “be a boy outright and again in “ As You Like It,” — I know not the contents ; but, as I guess By the stern brow and waspish action Which she did use as she was writing it. It bears an angry tenour. Act iv. Scene 3. In the celebrated scene in which the reconciliation between Brutus and Cassius is effected, the word is used in a similar manner : — I’ll use you for my mirth ; yea, for my laughter. When you are waspish. Act iv. Scene 3. In the first interview between Katharine and Pe- truchio, the word has precisely a similar signification. In accordance with his resolution to “woo her with some spirit when she comes,” Petruchio, ere long, addresses his intended spouse by an epithet not usually found in a lover’s vocabulary — Pet. Come, come, you wasp, i’ faith — you are too angry. Kath. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. Pet. My remedy is then to pluck it out. Kath. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies. Pet. Who knows not where a wasp doth wear his sting ? In his tail. Taming of the Shrew, Act ii. Scene i . Its power of stinging, and its proneness to exert that power, are the reasons why the word “ wasp ” is applied to individuals who would be apt to avenge real or imaginary injuries. This may be exemplified by the line. Let not this wasp outlive us both to sting. Titus Atidronicus, Act ii. Scene 3. Those characteristics are again referred to, when Suffolk, in “ Henry VIII.,” is replying to the ques- tion — Will the king Digest this letter of the Cardinal’s ? Suffolk. There be more wasps that buz about his nose. Will make this sting the sooner. Act iii. Scene 2. Although wasps do not, like the bees, collect and store up honey, there is nothing, however, of which they are more fond ; and they scruple not to arrest it by force from the industrious inhabitants of the hive. In this attempt, they “ let no compunctious visitings o’ nature shake their fell purpose ;” and not unfre- quently put to death the victims of their rapacity. This fact has not escaped the eye of Shakespeare. His knowledge of it furnishes a metaphor employed, in the “Two Gentlemen of Verona,” by Julia, to ex- press her contrition for having torn the letter of “ the love-wounded Proteus : — Oh ! hateful hands, to tear such loving words ! Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey. And kill the bees that yield it with your stings ! Act i. Scene 2. The busy, noisy, restless fly was his especial study ; thus we find the common blue-bottle fly furnishing, in “ King Henry IV.,” an epithet applied by the abusive tongue of Doll Tearsheet, to the beadle who had her in custody. She reviles him as a “blue- bottle rogue,” a term evidently suggested by the similarity of the colour of his costume to that of the insect. U 2 148 Life of Shakespeare. The wanton cruelty too often exercised towards flies, is unfortunately a circumstance of common occurrence, and as such, fell under the notice of Shakespeare. Accordingly we And, in “ King Lear,” that Gloster utters the reflection — As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods ; They kill us for their sport. Act iv. Scene i. The ease with which this is effected is implied in “ As You Like It,” by the phrase, “ by this hand it will not kill a fly.” (Act iv. Scene i.) In “ Titus Andro- nicus,” we And that the killing of a fly is not merely mentioned, but humanely rebuked. When Titus and Marcus are seated together at a banquet, the former inquires, — Tihis. What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife ? Marcus. At that that I have kill’d, my lord, — a fly. Titus. Out on thee, murderer! thou killest mine heart ; Mine eyes are cloy’d with view of tyranny. A deed of death done on the innocent. Becomes not Titus’ brother. Get thee gone ; I see thou art not for my company. Marcus. Alas ! my lord, I have but kill'd a fly. Titus. But how, if that fly had a father and mother, How would he hang his slender, gilded wings. And buz lamenting doings in the air ? Poor, harmless fly ! Act iii. Scene 2. The influence which the sun possesses in summoning those insects to their mazy dances in the air, or in sending them to their lurking places by withdrawing his beams, has not been passed by unheeded. Thus we read— When the sun shines, let foolish gnats make sport ; But creep in crannies, when he hides his beams. Comedy of Errors, Act ii. Scene 2. Now it is not a little remarkable, that while Shake- speare seems to suppose that maggots were generated by the sun, or that “ the sun breeds maggots in a dead dog,” he was at the same time aware of the fact, that they are produced by a fly, who deposits on the decaying matter her eggs, or her larvae. The allusions to the flesh-flies, as the origin of the maggots, are numerous. When Trinculo has been taken out of “ the filthy mantled pool,” beyond the cell of Prospero, he replies to a question by Alonzo, “ I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last, that I fear me will never out of my bones ; I shall not fear fly- blowing.” (“Tempest,” Act v. Scene i.) When Imogen, in the assumed character of Fidele, agrees to follow Lucius, she states her determination, in the first instance, to bury the supposed dead body of Posthumus, not for the purpose of doing it honour, but of protecting it from those insects : — I’ll follow, sir. But first, an’t please the gods, I’ll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig. Cymbeliue, Act iv. Scene 2. Ferdinand, when he avows his passion for Miranda, says, — I would no more endure This wooden slavery, than 1 would suffer The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Te}>ipest, Act iii. Scene i. And Shakespeare points out still more distinctly and unequivocally the connexion between the fly and the maggot, when he says, — These summer flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation. Love’s Labour's Lost, Act v. Scene 2. Although our larders now and then suffer a little from the attacks of these flesh-flies, the benefits they confer outweigh a thousand times the injuries they occasion. They are the great preservers of the purity and salubrity of the air, by their instrumentality in consuming carrion, which, if left to decay, by the decomposition of its particles would taint the atmo- sphere around. To fit them the better for this im- portant duty, they are gifted with astonishing powers both of growth and of production. The Diptera, or two-winged flies, are frequently mentioned. Titus Andronicus rebukes his brother Marcus for killing a fly during a repast : — Poor harmless fly ! That with his pretty buzzing melody Came here to make us merry, and thou hast kill’d him. Act iii. Scene 2. The common people swarm like summer flies. And whither fly the gnats but to the sun ? is the reflection of the wounded Clifford in “ Henry VI.” Part III. (Act ii. Scene 6.) My brave Egyptians all Lie graveless ; till the flies and gnats of Nile Have buried them for prey — are the words of Cleopatra. (Act iii. Scene ii.) Shakespeare knew the gad-fly under the name of “ brize,” its habits, and the terror it inspired among the herds. The gad-flies appear during the hottest portion of our summer. From the sudden consternation and precipitate flight of the cattle, Shakespeare introduces a com- parison, which, though not descriptive of one who, like Cleopatra, beggar’d all description, marks well the abruptness and sudden frenzy of her retreat from the naval conflict, and is highly appropriate in the mouth of the excited Scarus : — Yon ribald nag of Eg^-pt, Whom leprosy o’ertake ; i’ the midst o’ the fight, — When vantage like a pair of twins appear’d Both as the same, or rather ours the elder, — The brize upon her, like a cow in June, Hoists sail, and flies. Antony and Cleopatra, Act iii. Scene 9. In another line, Shakespeare has indicated even more 149 Shakespeare s Knowledge of Horticulture, Flo wers, Insects, Birds, and Rural Life. strongly the sufferings which cattle endure from this insect : — The herd hath more annoyance by the brize Than by the tiger. Troilus and Cressida, Act i. Scene 3. Now it is not a little curious, that the terror thus evinced by our cattle does not proceed from the in- fliction of a painful wound, but solely from the alarm occasioned by a peculiar sound emitted by the cestri, while hovering for the purpose of oviposition. This view would corroborate the description given by Virgil, both as regards the existence of such a sound, and its apparent effect upon the herd. In “ Henry IV.,” Part I., the Carrier at Rochester says, — Pease and beans are as dank here as a dog ; and that is the way to give poor jades the bots. And one of the misfortunes of the miserable nag of Petruchio is, that “ he is so begnawn with the bots.” The “ poor beetle ” was also specially favoured and affectioned by him, not omitting the kinds which, instead of subsisting on decayed vegetable and animal substances, are predaceous in their habits, and live on animal food {Adephaga). The principal part of their subsistence is derived from the flesh of the smaller insects which they are able to overcome, and they seize as booty any recent animal matter which chance may throw in their way. They are so constantly foraging about for provisions, so incessantly running across our paths, that they must occasionally be trampled to death. Hence “the poor beetle that we tread upon” probably belongs to the tribe forbidden by the fairies to come near the sleeping Titania : — Beetles black, approach not here. Almost every stone during spring and summer forms a covering for some of these insects. So numerous are the individuals comprised in some of the families into which they are divided, that of one very common kind {Carabidd), Curtis states we have two hundred and seventy-five British species. All of these are complete cannibals in their habits. “ The poor beetle that we tread upon.” The precise meaning which in this passage the poet intended to convey would indicate what was Shakespeare’s opinion of the sensibility of insects compared with that of man. The passage in which these words occur is introduced in “ Measure for Measure.” The poor beetle, that we tread upon. In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies. Act iii. Scene i. Numerous, indeed, are the observations to which those lines have given rise. It is usually asserted that the poet meant to say, “ the corporal sufferings of a giant are great, and those of a beetle when trodden under foot are as great.” If this be so, the entomologist who kills an insect for his cabinet, occa- sions the same amount of actual suffering he would do, were he to put one of his fellow-creatures to death. Let us examine more closely the words which Shake- speare employs, and the circumstances under which they are used. Claudio is in a dungeon, from which the compliance of his sister Isabella with the terms of the Viceroy would set him free. She dreads his fear of death may overcome his sense of honour, and that he may urge her, as in fact he eventually does, to adopt that remedy which “ to save a head ” would “ cleave a heart in twain.” Under this apprehension she speaks : — Oh ! I do fear thee, Claudio ; and I quake, Lest thou a feverous life should’st entertain, And six or seven winters more respect Than a perpetual honour. Darest thou die ? The sense of death is most in apprehension ; And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies. When the latter part of the sentence is separated from the preceding lines, it appears to convey such a picture of the sufferings of “ the poor beetle,” that many have, on this passage, brought a charge of cruelty against all persons devoted to entomological pursuits. Such a charge, ignorance alone could sug- gest. “ There are few instances of a more complete perversion of the meaning of a poetical quotation than occurs in this passage of Shakespeare. The object of the fair pleader being to encourage her brother steadfastly to encounter death, would scarcely have been forwarded by depicting that consummation as attended with great corporal sufferance. His pur- pose was to show how little a man feels in dying ; that ‘ the sense of death is most in apprehension, not in the act ; and that even a beetle, which feels so little, feels as much as a giant does.’ The less, there- fore, the beetle is supposed to feel, the more force we give to the sentiment of Shakespeare.” Beetles are mentioned by Shakespeare only in the two passages already quoted, and amid the impreca- tions of Caliban against the majestic Prospero : — All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you. Te^npest, Act i. Scene 2. None of these imply, on the part of Shakespeare, a knowledge of the variety of their kinds. This is what might be expected ; for even Ray’s celebrated work, “ Historia Insectorum,” published nearly a century after the death of our own great poet, was written, according to Haworth, in “ the dark ages of science.” We must not, therefore, demand from Shakespeare a knowledge beyond that of the age in which he lived. Perhaps, if the state of science at that time had been different, it would still have made little. ICO Life of Shakespeare. if any, change in him. He would probably have exerted, as he did, his habits of quick and accurate observation, but would not have courted the assist- ance which science only can afford. In this respect he might have resembled many gifted individuals of the present day, who, with all the facilities which they possess of acquiring knowledge, have never devoted a little time to learn how they might dis- criminate one insect from another ; how they might distinguish those living things, by which, in every place and at all seasons, they are surrounded. Although the word “beetle” occurs only in the passages quoted, he has elsewhere noticed, under a different name, the glow-worm {Lampyris noctiluca), an insect rich in poetic associations, and well de- serving of the epithet “ earth-born star,” bestowed upon it by Wordsworth. It is happily introduced by Titania, where she enumerates to Pease-blossom ! Cobweb ! Moth ! and Mustard-seed ! the fairy-like services which they were to render to the “gentle mortal,” “sweet bully Bottom,” with whom, in consequence of the potent spell laid on her by Oberon, she has become “ much enamoured.” Steal from the humble-bees. And, for night tapers, crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes. Act iii. Scene i. This passage has been thus censured by Dr. John- son : — “ I know not how Shakespeare, who commonly derived his knowledge of nature from his own obser- vation, happened to place the glow-worm’s light in his eyes, which is only in his tail.” To this Mason has replied, that “ the blunder is not in Shakespeare, but in those who have construed too literally a poetic expression;” and adds, “Surely a poet is justified in calling the luminous part of the glow-worm the eye : it is a liberty we take in plain prose ; for the point of greatest brightness in a furnace is commonly called the eye of it.” In “ Hamlet ” — The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire. Act i. Scene 5. The blind beetle, which flies in the summer evenings, and startles us by striking against our faces, is intro- duced with happiest effect in “ Macbeth.” Ere the bat hath flown His cloister’d flight ; ere to black Hecate’s summons The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath wrung night’s yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note. Act iii. Scene 2. The beetle is furnished with two large membra- naceous wings, which are protected from external injury by two very hard, horny wing-cases. The old English name for these was “ shard,” and this word is introduced into three of Shakespeare’s plays. Thus, in his “ Antony and Cleopatra,” — They are his shards, and he their beetle ; Act iii. Scene 2. and in “ Cymbeline,” — Often to our comfort do we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing’d eagle. Act iii. Scene 3. These shards or wing-cases are raised and expanded when the beetle flies, and by their concavity act like two parachutes in supporting him in the air. Hence the propriety and correctness of Shakespeare’s de- scription, “ the shard-borne beetle,” a description embodied in a single epithet. The word “shard” has other meanings ; it is employed by Hamlet in its primitive English signification — a piece of broken tile ; for the priest says of Ophelia, — Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her. Act V. Scene i. Shard-born beetle is the beetle born in cow-dung ; and that shard expresses dung is well known in the north of Staffordshire, where cow’s shard is the word generally used for cow-dung. In speaking of beetles, who is not familiar with the line which gives a most forcible idea of the dizzy altitude of Dover cliff.? The crows and choughs that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles. King Lear, Act iv. Scene 6. Shakespeare evidenced great knowledge of the habits of spiders and of the general feeling of man- kind towards them. Spiders are not arranged by naturalists with insects properly so called, but occupy a place between crabs, lobsters, &c., or crustaceous animals, and those now designated as insects. The position thus allotted to them is just, from a consideration of their physical structure. Spiders, on their liberation from the egg, are perfectly formed, although very minute, and they do not, like insects, undergo transformations. Many of them breathe through lungs, and hence their respi- ratory apparatus forms another ground of distinction. They are all predaceous, and live upon small in- sects which they are able to overcome. This is effected, however, in very different ways. Some spin the webs, which are the abhorrence of all tidy house- keepers ; others construct those nets, which, when glittering in the morning sun, and bright as the dew- drops by which they are surrounded, every one has at some time or other regarded with admiration. Thus in the “ Merchant of Venice,” when Bassanio has opened the leaden casket containing “ fair Portia’s counterfeit,” and is giving vent to the admiration which so excellent a delineation of her beauty excites, Shakespeare' s Knowledge of Hortiailture, his words allude to the destruction which the spider’s web promotes — Here, in her hairs, The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs. Act iii. Scene 2. To the same insect, Plantagenet compares the state of his own mind : — My brain, more busy than the labouring spider, Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies. Khig Henry VI., Part II., Act iii. Scene i. The epithets “ labouring” and “ tediou.s,” are applied with peculiar felicity, for they denote the protracted labours, the industry and perseverance, evinced in the fabrication of the snare. When Queen Margaret is hurling imprecations on her enemies, she is turned from her encounter with Gloster, by a remark made by the Queen : and while a pitying spirit seems for a moment to supplant her rage, she addresses her successor in the words — Poor, painted Queen, vain flourish of my fortune ! Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottled spider. Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about ? Richard III, Act i. Scene 3. In another part of the same play, the epithet “ bottled” is again applied in a similar manner : — That bottled spider, that foul hunchback’d toad. Act iv. Scene 4. And in both instances we may suppose it is used on account of the peculiar shape of the spider’s body. In this country the spider’s web is characterized by extreme fragility. Hence it is mentioned by Falcon- bridge, when impressing on Hubert, after the death of Arthur, the conviction, that the slightest and most trifling thing would be sufficient for his destruction, if accessory “to this deed of death — If thou didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair. And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest thread That ever spider twisted from her womb, Will serve to strangle thee. King John, Act iv. Scene 3. In the equipage of Queen Mab, The traces of the smallest spidePs web, are in keeping with the rest of her appointments ; and well were they adapted for her regal state, for no Eastern potentate ever harnessed his foaming steeds by traces of so complicated a structure. The web of the common house-spider has long been employed in stopping the effusion of blood. This has not escaped the all-pervading eye of Shakespeare ; and hence. Bottom, in addressing one of his fairy attendants, says, — I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you. I Midsummer Night's Dream, Act iii. Scene i. | Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Rural Life. 1 5 i Shakespeare seems to have been aware that there are differences in the habits of spiders ; some of them constructing nets, and others not doing so. This is evident from a passage in the “ Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Titania is reclining on the bank “ whereon the wild thyme blows,” and her fairy attendants are obeying her commands, “ Sing me now asleep — Weaving spiders, come not here ; Hence, ye long-legg’d spinners, hence. Act ii. Scene 3. By “weaving spiders,” must of course be meant some of those which construct nets in the open air ; but the words “ long-legged spinners ” do not seem to be a synonymous expression, but to denote an entirely different tribe. Those long-legged, or shepherd spiders which do not spin nets, but seize their prey by violence, would naturally abound in situations similar to that in which Titania is placed. The word “spinner,” may justly be considered as a generic term for spider, and not as indicating that the one to which it is applied actually spins. This inference does not appear to be unnatural or improbable ; — The court awards it, and the law doth give it ; Merchant of Venice, Act iv. Scene i. That spiders are full of venom, is the universal belief ; and in accordance with it. King Richard II., in saluting the “ dear earth ” on which he stands, after Late tossing on the breaking seas — accosts it thus : — Feed not thy sovereign’s foes, my gentle earth. Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense ; But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom. And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way. Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet. Which with usurping steps do trample thee. Act iii. Scene 2. From another passage, it is evident that Shakespeare believed that any injury a spider might occasion, arose more from the imagination of the sufferer than the venom of the spider : — There may be in the cup A spider steep’d, and one may drink, depart. And yet partake no venom ; for his knowledge Is not infected : but if one present The abhorr’d ingredient to his eye, make known How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides. With violent hefts. Winter’s Tale, Act ii. Scene i. The gossamer is now known to be the production of a minute spider. It is twice mentioned by Shake- speare, but not in connexion with the little being from whom it originates. One of the passages is familiar to every one : — A lover may bestride the gossamer. That idles in the wanton summer air. And yet not fall, so light is vanity ; Romeo and J2iliet, Act ii. Scene 6. 152 Life of Shakespeare. and the other is put into the mouth of Edgar, when he accosts his father, after his supposed leap from that Cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully on the confined deep. — # # * # Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feather, air. So many fathom down precipitating. Thou had’st shiver’d like an egg. Lear, Act iv. Scene 6. The threads of the gossamer are more abundant in autumn than at any other period of the year ; but they may be seen at all seasons, and never with greater pleasure than when crusted with hoar-frost, and glittering like little garlands of minute icicles. The creature so zealously sought for, with no desire to find, by all good housewives — the bug, was doubt- less an intimate acquaintance ; but it is a singular fact, and one which shows that this disgusting visitant must have been comparatively little known in the days of “ good Queen Bess,” that although the word “bug” occurs on five or six different occasions in Shakespeare’s plays, it is in every instance synony- mous with bugbear, and does not designate the insect. Thus Petruchio, unawed by the description of the “ wild cat ” Katharine, scornfully exclaims to the lovers of Bianca, “Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs and when Leontes, inflamed with groundless jealousy against Hermione, bids her “ look for no less than death,” her reply contains the same word in precisely a similar sense : — Sir, spare your threats. The bug which you will fright me with I seek. Winter^ s Tale, Act iii. Scene i. It is not so, however, with another, to which you w'ould be most likely to apply the words of Jacques : — Let’s meet as little as we can. As You lake It, Act iii. Scene 2. One insect still remains, belonging to the order Aptera ; but Shakespeare himself introduces it to notice in the opening scene of the “ Merry Wives of Windsor,’! in which Justice Shallow, Slender, and Evans are holding forth on the importance of Shallow and his family, on his being “ a gentleman born,” and writing himself “ Armigero — Shallow. Ay, that we do, and have done so any time these three hundred years. Slender. All his successors gone before him have done it ; and all his ancestors that come after him may : they may give the dozen white luces in their coat. Shallow. ’Tis an old coat. Evans. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well ; it agrees well, passant ; it is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love. Act i. Scene i. Queen Mab’s equipage ! Who has not been charmed with the nice observance of insect minuteness here di.splayed 1 Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs, The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers. The traces of the smallest spider’s web. The collars of the moonshine’s watery beams. Her whip of cricket’s bone. Ro7)ico and Juliet, Act i. Scene 4. The grasshopper and cricket are both insects known to every one by the sense of hearing as well as that of sight. Lady Macbeth, in replying to the question of her husband after the murder of Duncan, says, “ I heard the owls scream, and the crickets cry.” Linnaeus and Bonnet were incorrect in denying that insects can hear at all ; and Shakespeare has evinced his usual accuracy of discrimination when he says, in the “ Winter’s Tale,” — I will tell it softly ; Yon crickets shall not hear me. Act ii. Scene 1. In the scientific entomological acceptation of the term, these insects really have no vocal song, that is, no peculiar note produced, like the human voice or the song of birds, by the modulation of vocal organs, or by air expelled from the mouth. And yet the chirp of the cricket, the drowsy hum of the beetle, the buzzing of the fly, the humming of the bee, are all sounds produced without what may be properly termed voice. In the beetle they are probably caused by the friction of the wing-cases at the base of the wings, throwing them into a strong vibratory motion. Some species of grasshoppers effect a similar object by rubbing the elytra with the right and left legs alter- nately ; and the loudness of the sound is augmented by a deep cavity on each side of the body, in which there is a drum or little membrane in a state of tension. In the cricket the apparatus consists of strong nervures or rough strings in the wing-cases, by the friction of which against each -other a sound is produced, and communicated to the membranes stretched between them. The males only are gifted with these musical powers. Shakespeare, in his notice of the ant, has shown his usual accuracy of observation, when he says, — We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring in the winter. King Lear, Act ii. Scene 4 ; for the ants in these countries lie dormant during that season, and consequently do not require food for their support. From the frequent mention of the flea by Shake- speare, it is evident there was no scarcity of them in “ merrie England ” during the days of good Queen Bess. The Carriers in “ Henry IV.,” Part I., com- plain of the little insect which figured upon Bar- dolph’s nose. They are alluded to in the colloquy between Shallow and his man Davy : — Shakespeare s Kiiow ledge of Horlictilltire, Flowers, Insects, Birds, and R 7 iral Life. 153 This is the most villainous house in all London road for fleas : I am stung like a tench. Kin^ Henry IV, Part I., Act ii. Scene i. No worse than they are backbitten, sir. H/n^ Henry IV, Part II., Act v. Scene i. And even the Duke of Orleans, without reproach to manhood be it spoken, is represented as saying to the Constable of France, — That’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion. King Henry V, Act iii. Scene 7. Sir Toby Belch indicates his opinion of the valour, or rather of the want of valour, in Sir Andrew Ague- cheek, by the assertion, — If he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of the anatomy. Twelfth Night, Act iii. Scene 2. And Mrs. Ford shows she has been a witness to the execution of at least one of these “ wild fowl,” when she exclaims, as her jealous husband searches the clothes-basket, — If you find a man there he shall die a flea’s death. Merry Wives of Wuidsor, Act iv. Scene 2. The astonishing strength, sufficient to draw miniature coaches and cannon, and its leaps, so disproportionate to its size, may make us regard it with complacence. At all events, whenever we suffer from these little assailants, let us try to imbibe a lesson of humility from their attack, and say in the spirit, if not in the words of the banished Duke, — These are counsellors. That feelingly persuade me what I am. As You Like It, Act ii. Scene i. John R. Wise, who has discoursed sweetly, and with profound knowledge and appreciation of the great poet, has carefully noted his use of Warwickshire pro- vincialisms and allusions to his native county ; as also the more striking phrases found in his plays, and which are still to be heard in the mouths of the War- wickshire peasantry, who, now more than anybody else. Speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake. And Malone, too, showed that the singular expression in the “Tempest” (Act i. Scene 2), “we cannot miss him,” for, “we must not miss him,” was a provincialism of the same district. It is not asserted that certain phrases and expressions are to be found nowhere else but in Shakespeare or Warwickshire. But it is in- teresting to know that the Warwickshire girls still speak of their “ long purples,” and “ love-in-idleness and that the Warwickshire boys have not forgotten their “ deadmen’s fingers and that the “nine men’s morris ” is still played on the corn-bins of the War- wickshire farm stables, and still scored upon the green- sward ; and that Queen Titania would not have now to complain, as she did in the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” that it was choked up with mud ; and that “ Master Slender ” would find his shovel-board still marked on many a public-house table and window- sill ; and that he and “Master Fenton,” and “good Master Brook,” would, if now alive, hear themselves still so called. Take now, for instance, the word “deck,” which is so common throughout the Midland Counties for a pack of cards, but in Warwickshire is often restricted to the sense of a “ hand ” of cards, and which gives a far better interpretation to Gloster’s speech in the Third Part of “ King Henry VI.” Act v. Scene i. : — Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast , But whiles he thought to steal the single ten. The king was slyly finger’d from the deck : as, of course, there might be more kings than one in a pack, but not necessarily so in the hand. The word “ forecast,” too, both as verb and noun, is very common throughout both Warwickshire and the neighbouring counties. This word “ forecast ” is also used by Spenser, and others of Shakespeare’s contemporaries ; and, though obsolete, except amongst the peasantry of the midland districts, is still employed by the best American authors. Again, in Autolycus’s song, in the “ Winter’s Tale,” Act iv. Scene 2 ; — The white sheet bleaching on the hedge — With heigh ! the sweet birds, oh, how they sing ! Doth set my pugging-tooth on edge. For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. If Shakespeare’s own style and manner, which is un- doubtedly the case, has had a marked influence on subsequent writers, and even on the English language itself, still his native county left some traces of its dialect even upon him. Johnson, himself born in a neighbouring county, first pointed out that the expression “ a mankind witch,” in the “ Winter’s Tale ” (Act ii. Scene 3), was a phrase in the Midland Counties for a violent woman. All the commentators here explain “pugging-tooth” as a thievish tooth, an explanation which certainly itself requires to be explained ; but most Warwick- shire country people could tell them that pugging- tooth was the same as pegging or peg-tooth, that is, the canine or dog-tooth. “ The child has not it.« pegging-teeth yet,” old women still say. And thus all the difficulty as to the meaning is at once cleared. But there is an expression used both by Shake- X 154 Life of Shakespea7^e. speare and his contemporaries, which must not be so quickly passed over. Wherever there has been an unusual disturbance or ado, the lower orders round Stratford-on-Avon invariably characterize it by the phrase, “there has been old work to-day,” which well interprets the Porter’s allusion in “ Macbeth ” (Act iii. * Scene 3), “ If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key,” which is simply explained in the notes as “ frequent,” but which means, far more. So, in the “ Merchant of Venice” (Act iv. Scene 2), Portia says, “We shall have old swearing,” that is, very hard swearing ; and in the “ Merry Wives of Windsor” (Act i. Scene 4), we find, “Here will be an old abusing of God’s patience, and the king’s English;” and in the Second Part of “ King Henry IV.” (Act ii. Scene 4), “ By the mass, here will be old utis.” And so also, in “Much Ado about Nothing” (Act V. Scene 2), Ursula says, “Madam, you must come to your uncle ; yonder’s old coil at home and to this day, round Stratford, is this use of “old” still kept up by the lower classes. Again, there is another expression very common in Warwickshire, of “ being in a person’s book,” which must not be confounded with the modern phrase of “ being in a person’s good book.” The common people always still use the phrase without the quali- fying epithet. Thus, in the “Taming of the Shrew” (Act ii. Scene i), in the bantering scene between Kate and her lover, Petruchio jestingly says, in reply to her observation that he has no arms, “ A herald, Kate ? Oh ! put me in thy books.” So also, in “ Much Ado about Nothing” (Act i. Scene i), the messenger says to Beatrice, “ I see the gentleman is not in your good books ; ” to which she replies, “ No, an he were, I would burn my study.” The phrase, no doubt, had its origin in servants and retainers being entered in their employers’ books, and still in Warwickshire con- tinues in its primitive sense. Nothing escaped Shakespeare’s eye, he drew his metaphors from all sources. The man breaking stones in some Warwickshire by-lane would probably be able to throw some light on this passage from the “Merchant of Venice” (Act v. Scene i) : — Why, this is like the mending of highways In summer, when the ways are fair enough. He would tell you that in Warwickshire, on the cold, wet lias land, there are many roads which are scarcely passable in winter, and are called, to this day, “ sum- mer roads and he would further add, in explanation of the passage, that the country practice of road repairing is to draw heaps of stone on the wayside in summer, which are only made use of in winter ; and he would further tell you the meaning of the Duke of Bourbon’s speech, in “ King Henry V.” (Act iii. Scene 5) ; — I will sell my dukedom. To buy a slobberly and a dirty farm : and that “ slobberly,” or “ slobbery,” is to this day applied to the wet, dirty Warwickshire by-roads. The house-wife, too, at some old Warwickshire farm, with its moss-thatched roof, will tell you that, the expression in the “ Taming of the Shrew,” Act v. Scene i, “ My cake is dough,” or, as Grumio has it in the same play, “ Our cake is dough on both sides,” is a common country proverb, and may be heard any day ; and that he who wrote — Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp’d, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is — was well acquainted with country usages ; and she will show you the great oblong oven of former days, with its “stopless” or “ditless,” that is, the lid with which it is stopped. How fond Shakespeare was of common proverbs, the following instances will show : — “ Good wine needs no bush,” As You Like It, in the Epilogue. “ Good liquor will make a cat speak,” the Tempest, Act i. Scene 2. “ Dead as a door nail,” Second Part of King Henry IV., Act v. Scene 3. Pistol pours them out one after the other : “ Pitch and pay,” “Trust no one,” “Hold-fast is the only dog,” King Henry V., Act ii. Scene 3. So, too, in the Comedy of Errors, Act iii. Scene i, we find “ As mad as a buck and in Much Ado about Nothing, Act. ii. Scene i, “ God sends a curst cow short horns.” Every trade and calling Shakespeare seems in- tuitively to understand. As he himself says, “ Every lane’s end, every shop, church session, hanging, yields a careful man work.” His mind readily apprenticed itself to whatever he saw. Allusions to a thou- sand occupations abound throughout his plays. For instance, take the following; — “A wit of cheverill that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad.” “ A fish hangs in the net like a poor man’s right in the law ; ’twill hardly come out.” “ A plague of opinion ! a man may wear it on both sides, like a leather jerkin.” “ Ignorance is a plummet over me and the inference to be drawn is, not that Shake- speare was a glover, or fisherman, or carpenter, but that his mind comprehended everything that it saw. For, looking at Shakespeare as a whole, we find in him every quality that is required in any station of life. As far as we can judge from his writings, he had the requisites that would make a good general, a farmer, a merchant, or a naturalist — in fact, have given him pre-eminence in any calling. It is this manysidedness of his that has caused all the absurd books to be written proving that he must have been a lawyer, because he knew law so well ; or a doctor, because he so accurately describes the phases of Shakespeare s Knoiuledge of Horticulture, certain diseases. The writers might just as well have argued that, because Shakespeare has so faithfully described madness, he must have been a lunatic. But a great poet, in fact, possesses all the faculties of the rest of the world. Shakespeare’s contemporary, Greene, was quite right when, in his “ Groat’s Worth of Wit,” he called him “an absolute Johannes Fac- totum.” In anger, as well as in wine, truth is spoken. There is a curious phrase about Stratford of “ prick- eared,” and it is applied, not so much to an abusive, as to a pert and upstart person. Thus, Pistol to Corporal Nym, in “ King Henry V.,” Act ii. Scene i : “ Pish for thee, Iceland dog ; thou prick-eared cur of Iceland.” The metaphor has most probably been borrowed from the stable rather than the kennel, and alludes to the sharp-pointed, upright ears which some horses are continually pricking up, and in reference to this the word is often used. A common Warwickshire expression, to denote great length of time, is to say, “ I have been employed here, man and boy, so many years so in the grave- digging scene in “ Hamlet,” the sexton says of him- self, “ I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.” And in the same scene occurs another pro- vincialism, “ Make her grave straight,” which Dr. Johnson imagined alluded to some particular shape, but which simply means make it quickly ; just as, in the same play, Polonius says, “He will come straight,” that is, immediately. This word is used in several neighbouring counties in this sense. A peculiar use of the verb “quoth” is noticeable among the lower orders in Warwickshire. It is uni- versally applied to inanimate things : for instance, though the ploughshare could not speak, still the verb quoth would not be inapplicable to it. “Jerk, quoth the ploughshare,” that is, the ploughshare went — to use a vulgarism — ^jerk. So precisely in this sense in “ Romeo and Juliet,” Act i. Scene 3, the old Nurse says, “ Shake, quoth the dovehouse,” that is, the dove- house went or began shaking. Again, there is a peculiar use of the personal pronoun in Warwickshire, which cannot be better illustrated than from Shake- speare himself. Thus, in “ Romeo and Juliet,” Act ii. Scene 4, Mercutio says of Tybalt, “ He rests me his minim rest and Hotspur, in the First Part of “ King Henry IV.,” Act iii. Scene i, thus speaks : — I See how this river comes me, cranking in. And cuts me, from the best of all my land, A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out. The punctuation is my own. The ordinary readings have no comma after “ me,” in the first line, though they insert it after the “me” in the second. Mortimer immediately after uses the same phrase, though not so strongly marked. So also Falstafif says, in praise Flowers, Insects, Birds, and Riu'al Life. 155 of good sherris-sack, in the Second Part of “ King Henry IV.,” Act iv. Scene 3, “ It a.scends me into the brain, dries me there all the foolish, and dull, and crudy vapours.” So also, again, in “Troilus and Cressida,” Act i. Scene 2, perhaps the strongest instance of all, Pandarus thus describes the love of Helen for Troilus : “ She came, and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin.” Such a phrase can hardly well be explained. Those who have been in the habit of mixing with the common people of Warwickshire will at once recognize it as quite familiar to their ears. The number of words used in Shakespeare’s plays now heard only in the Midland Counties, and which can there be better explained than by any learned commentary, is, to say the least, curious. To confine ourselves to Warwickshire : there is the expressive compound “ blood-boltered ” in “Macbeth,” Act iv. Scene i, which the critics have all thought meant simply blood-stained. Miss Baker, in her “ Glossary of Northamptonshire Words,” first pointed out that “bolter” was peculiarly a Warwickshire word, signi- fying to clot, collect, or cake, as snow does in a horse’s hoof, thus giving the phrase a far greater intensity of meaning. And Steevens, too, first noticed, that in the expression in the “ Winter’s Tale,” Act iii. Scene 3, “Is it a boy or a child.?” — where every actor tries to make a point, and the audience in- variably laughs — that the word “ child ” is used, as is sometimes the case in the Midland districts, as synonymous with girl, which is plainly its meaning in this passage, although the speaker has used it just before in its more common sense of either a boy or a girl. Again, there is the word “ gull ” in “ Timon of Athens,” Act ii. Scene i, — But I do fear. When every feather sticks in his own wing. Lord Timon will be left a naked gull. Which flashes now a phoenix ; which most of the critics have thought alluded to a sea-gull, whereas it means an unfledged nestling, which to this day is so called in Warwickshire. And this interpretation throws a light on a passage in the First Part of “ King Henry IV.,” Act v. Scene i : — You used me so, As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird, Useth the sparrow ; — where .some notes amusingly say that the word alludes to the voracity of the cuckoo. I may add that the Warwickshire farmers’ wives even now call their young goslings gulls. There is also a very common Warwickshire phrase, “contain yourself,” that is, restrain yourself ; and so in “Timon of Athens,” Act ii. Scene 2, Timon says X 2 Life of Shakespeare. 156 to his creditor’s servant, “ Contain yourself, good friend;” and so again, in “Troilus and Cressida,” Act V. Scene 2, Ulysses says, — O contain yourself. Your passion draws ears hither. And in the “ Two Gentlemen of Verona,” Act iv. Scene 4, we find Launce using the still rarer phrase of “ keep yourself,” in the same sense to his dog Crab. It is, after all, touching to think that, amidst the change that is ever going on, the same phrases which Shakespeare spoke are still spoken in his native county, and that the flowers are still called by the same names which he called them. The Avon of Warwickshire, called the Upper Avon, derives its chief interest from its associations with Shakespeare. His contemporaries connected his fame with his native river : — Sweet Swan of Avon, what a sight it were. To see thee in our waters yet appear. And make those flights upon the banks of Thames That so did take Eliza and our James ! So wrote Jonson in his manly lines, “To the Memory of my Beloved, the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare, and what he hath left us.” After him came Davenant with an Ode “ In Remembrance of Master William Shakespeare,” conveying the pretty conceit that the river had lost its beauty when the great poet no longer dwelt upon its banks : — The piteous river wept itself away Long since, alas ! to such a swift decay. That, reach the map, and look If you a river there can spy. And, for a river, your mock’d eye Will find a shallow brook. Joseph Warton describes fair Fancy discovering the infant Shakespeare “ on the winding Avon’s willowed banks.” Thomas Warton has painted the scenery of the Avon and its associations with a bright pencil : — Avon, thy rural views, thy pastures wild. The willows that o’erhang thy twilight edge. Their boughs entangling with the embattled sedge ; Thy brink with watery foliage quaintly fringed. Thy surface with reflected verdure tinged ; Soothe me with many a pensive pleasure mild. But while I muse, that here the Bard Divine, Whose sacred dust yon high-arch’d aisles enclose. Where the tall windows rise in stately rows. 1 Above th’ embow'cring shade. Here first, at Fancy’s fairy-circled shrine. Of daisies pied his infant offering made ; Here playful yet, in stripling years unripe. Framed of thy reeds a shrill and artless pipe : Sudden thy beauties, Avon, all are fled. As at the waving of some magic wand ; An holy trance my charmed spirit wings. And awful shapes of leaders and of kings. People the busy mead. Like spectres swarming to the wizard’s hall ; And slowly pace, and point with trembling hand The wounds ill-cover’d by the purple pall. Before me Pity seems to stand, A weeping mourner, smote with anguish sore To see Misfortune rend in frantic mood His robe, with regal woes embroider’d o’er. Pale Terror leads the visionary band, j And sternly shakes his sceptre, dropping blood. j The presiding genius of the Avon is Shakespeare, i But even without this paramount association, the river abounds with picturesque scenery and interest- ing objects. The associations of the Avon with Shakespeare may be considered to begin in the neighbourhood of Kenilworth. The beautiful grounds of Guy’s Cliff and Warwick Castle in themselves amply repay a pilgrimage. The noble Castle is an object never to be forgotten ; and perhaps there is no pile of a similar interest in England which in so high ' a degree unites the beautiful with the magnificent. ; Our Warwick illustrations are numerous. The Avon flows for a considerable distance through the domain of the Castle. Below the left bank is bold and well- wooded. The course of the stream is generally through flat meadows from Barford to Hampton Lucy ; but the high ground of Fulbrooke offers a great variety of picturesque scenery, and occasionally one or the other bank is lofty and precipitous, as at Hampton Wood. The most romantic spot is Hatton Rock ; a bank of considerable height, where the current, narrow and rapid, washes the base of the cliff, which is luxuriantly wooded. The river view of Stratford, as we approach the bridge, is exceedingly picturesque. When we have passed the Church and the Mill we may follow the river, by the tow-path on the right bank, the whole way to Bidford. The views are not very picturesque till we have passed the con- fluence of the Stour. Near Ludington we meet I at every turn with subjects for the Sketch-book, j Opposite Welford, on the pathway to Hilborough, the landscape is very lovely. t THE CH.IXDOS. THE DHdESHuUT PltlXT. THE JAXSEX ritOU li.lil I'DITIOX 111 ' I'dl MS. SHAKESPEARE’S LATER YEARS AND DEATH. And nothing can we call HE exact time of Shakespeare’s final return from London to his dear Stratford Home cannot be fixed. Greene’s Memorandum shows that he was in London on the 17th November, 1614, and the probability is he left it close on that date. He yearned for his country employ- ments, and to pass the remainder of his days in tranquil retirement, though we do not presume to intimate that such a mind could ever have contemplated idleness. “ The latter part of his life,” says Rowe, “ was spent, as all men of good sense will wish theirs may be, in ease, retirement, and the society of his friends,” and he adds what cannot be doubted, that “ his pleasurable wit and good nature engaged him in the acquaintance, and entitled him to the friendship of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood.” He must have been of a lively and companionable disposition ; and his long residence in London, amid the bustling and varied scenes connected with his public life, independently of his natural powers of conversation, could not fail to render his society most agreeable and desirable. Kenny, with his usual force and truth says: — His profession as an actor contributed, perhaps, in some degree to bring more frequently and more directly home to his memory the incurable littleness of this our mortal destiny. The mimic representation of passion upon the stage must have a natural tendency to recall the hollowness of the hardly less unsubstantial realities which it mocks. Talma said he never could look an audience in the face without the continually recurring thought — where will all these heads be in another hundred years ? A very startling question, most assuredly. We believe that some such idea must often have arisen in the teeming, meditative mind of Shakespeare. To his rapid apprehension we are all but a troop of poor players. His own life was, after all, but a hurried, perplexed show; and he, too, in spite of the miracles of his genius, had but a shadowy passage over this mysterious stage of time. But this skiey being had his own firm hold of the fixed, solid earth. How small may be the threads our own but death. Richard II., Act ii. Scene 2 which bind the mightiest and the most discursive spirit to the shores of this mortality ! Shakespeare was a most careful man of business, as we are per- petually reminded by nearly all the petty incidents in his career with which we have become acquainted. Here, alone, he is for us an actual, living, unmistakable man. The direct controlling influence in his daily life, the special incentive to all his labours, was the desire to accumulate a fortune, and to secure those social advantages by which the possession of wealth is naturally accompanied. This was the counterpoise to the extravagant emotional and meditative tendencies of his nature. It was by this practical instinct that he held on to the realities of human existence — that, in its agitations and its struggles he was a steadfast actor, and not a mere amazed observer and a passionate dreamer — that he resisted the ceaseless pressure of a restless imagination — that he offered a determined front to the ever-rushing invasion of the wonder and the mystery of this changeful world of time and place. It was the familiar landmark that fixed for him his own little home in the infinite ocean of life. No wonder that he selected Stratford as the scene of the tranquil close of his days. It must have been inexpressibly endeared to him by the memories of boyhood. His wife and children remaining here during his actor life in the Metropolis would impress it with charms, heightened by his doubtless regular periodical visits to it as his real home, doubly dear to such an impressionable nature, and where his rural longings could be indulged. From the moment he purchased New Place it is manifest that he must have regarded his native town as his principal place of residence, and this purchase was made at a very early period in his dramatic career. Away, then, with the popular tradition which associates with his memory a jovial, riotous life in London. No careless frequenter of taverns could ever have exercised the vigilant prudence which enabled an actor and a writer for the stage in the days of Queen Elizabeth to become, before he had yet passed the rich autumn of his years, the Life of Shakespeare. 158 founder of a considerable fortune. All that we learn, too, of the poet’s own tastes is opposed to such a supposition. He appears to have been by nature a careful observer of the external decorum of life. He had evidently a decided predilection for gentle blood and gentle manners. That he was no admirer of the mob is one of the few conclusions with respect to his personal feelings which we can draw with a reasonable certainty from his dramas ; and, with the unanimous concurrence of the commentators, we may infer, from the Sonnets, that he felt pained and humiliated by his connexion with the stage, because it excluded him, as he believed, from familiar intercourse with a refined and congenial society. With such a nature, he must have instinctively shrunk from habitual convivial excesses. We do not mean to say that he was not a man of social temper, but we believe that that temper was very considerably under the restraint of a cautious sagacity and an innate refinement of feeling. Shakespeare’s determined renunciation of London society leads us to the adoption of another conclusion. The general character of his conversation is a subject on which w"e have received no decisive evidence of any kind, but on which we are all naturally led to speculate with a special interest. The best conjecture we can form is that it only very partially reflected the magni- ficence of his genius. He never took any deep root in the great centre of English social life, and this circumstance seems hardly compatible w'ith his pos- session of any transcendent conversational powers. We think it very probable, too, that he had naturally no special aptitude for such a pre-eminence. We cannot help suspecting that at the Mermaid Club, or at any other social gathering, he would have recalled the author of the poems, and of the early comedies, rather than the creator of any of his greater and more characteristic dramas. He would have shown won- derful fluency, no doubt, but he would also, not improbably, have shown a tendency to run into extravagant and ineffective conceits. This is a con- clusion which, as it seems to us, is also implied in the friendly notice of Jonson. We consider it not at all unlikely that of the two dramatists Jonson himself was the more vigorous talker. Amazed as he must have felt at the manifestations of a mighty and an utterly unaccountable genius, he evidently thought he possessed some sort of personal advantage over Shakespeare ; and this impression very probably arose in some degree out of the general result of their more social and familiar intercourse. Social Condition of the Kingdom in Shakespeare’s Time. Without entering into any lengthened description of the social condition of the people at the period i when Shakespeare was born, we may be sure it could be no effeminate age to produce such a man. Com- merce was crippled by monopolies, and of the arable land of the country not more than one-fourth was in a state of cultivation ; but large flocks of sheep were kept on account of their wool. Manufactures were only in their infancy. Woollen had been spun and woven only on a small scale throughout the country ; Taunton, in Somersetshire, being at that time the most famous for its fabrics of any town in England ; and the West of England was to the commerce of that day what the North is now. While Liverpool was still a swamp, and Manchester a straggling hamlet ; when Leeds was a cluster of mud huts, and the roman- tic valley of the Calder a desolate gorge, the streets of Taunton, Exeter, and Dunster resounded with arts and industry ; and the merchant-ships of Bridgwater and Bristol were going out or coming in from the remotest corners of the globe. The fairest fields, the richest cities, the proudest strongholds, lay in this region. The silk manufacture had been established in London upwards of two hundred years ; but as yet upwards of a century and a half must elapse before an adventurous John Lombe erects a silk-mill at Derby, and so begins the factory system in England. And that mighty cotton manufacture, upon whose prosperity the feeding of so many millions of people depends, at the birth of Shakespeare had no existence in the realm. Our principal foreign trade transactions then lay with the Netherlands ; but already the merchant princes of our island were seeking to bind us in the peaceful links of commerce with all lands. Agricul- ture was then in the rudest condition ; the flower- garden was but little cultivated, the parks of the nobility and gentry serving them for pleasure- grounds ; some valuable esculent herbs and fruits had indeed been recently introduced into the country, amongst which were turnips, carrots, salads, apricots, melons, and currants ; but potatoes were not yet cul- tivated in Britain, and even for a hundred years after- wards were scarcely known as an article of food ; and peas were in general brought from Holland ; so that old Fuller might well observe that they were “fit dainties for ladies, they came so far, and cost so dear.” The cultivation of flax was not neglected ; that bf hops had been introduced, but as yet our principal supply was from the Low Countries. The old dun- geon-like castles of the nobility were giving way to the more commodious halls or mansions, but the houses of the people improved slowly. The art of manufacturing the very coarsest sorts of glass had only been introduced into England seven years ; common window-glass and bottles being all that was attempted ; the finer articles of glass-ware being still imported from Venice. Few houses had glass for their windows, and even in towns of importance chimneys Shakespeare s Later Years and Death. 159 were an unknown luxury ; the smoke being allowed to escape as best it could, from the lattice, the door, or from openings in the roof. On a humble pallet of straw would the poor husbandman repose his wearied limbs ; and wheaten bread was not used by more than one-half of the population. The amusements of the people, for the most part, were gross and debasing. Cockfighting had the patronage of the learned and powerful of the land ; for though Edward III., as early as 1366, had pro- hibited it, with other disorderly games, by public proclamation, we find Queen Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII., “ Defender of the faith,” building a cock-pit at the palace of Whitehall, and James I., to whom our translation of the Bible is dedicated, amusing himself with cockfighting twice a week ; and the learned author, Roger Ascham — the University Orator at Cambridge, and the tutor of Queen Elizabeth — was a passionate admirer of this disgraceful sport. Then at Shrovetide, what a torturing of poor poultry did cock-throwing and thrashing-the-hen occasion ! Both Catholic Mary and Protestant Elizabeth derived pleasure from the baiting of bulls and bears ; and many a fair lady of that day might say with Slender, in the “ Merry Wives of Windsor,” — “ I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times.” Even the gentle, but unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots, when rendered so weak by her unjust imprisonment as not to be able to walk without support, according to the report of Sir Amias Powlet, her keeper (June 3rd, 1586), was sometimes “ carried in a chair to one of the adjoining ponds, to see the diversion of duck-hunting and, perchance, at times, compared the hard fate of the poor persecuted fowls with the harder and more lingering one of her own. Such was England and of such its people, great and simple, in the day of the great master of wisdom. Our loved friend, the late Charles Knight, thus refers to his last years : — The happy quiet of Shakespeare’s retreat was not wholly undisturbed by calamity, domestic and public. His brother Richard, who was ten years his junior, was buried at Stratford on the 4th of February, 1613. Of his father’s family his sister Joan, who had married Mr. William Hart of Stratford, was probably the only other left. There is no record of the death of his brother Gilbert ; but as he is not mentioned in the will of William, in all likelihood he died before him. Oldys, in his manuscript notes upon Langbaine, has a story of “ One of Shakespeare’s younger brothers, who lived to a good old age, even some years, as I com- pute, after the restoration of King Charles II.” Gil- bert was born in 1566 ; so that if he had lived some years after the restoration of Charles II., it is not sur- prising that “ his memory was weakened,” as Oldys reports, and that he could give “ the most noted actors” but “ little satisfaction in their endeavours to learn something from him of his brother.” The story of Oldys is clearly apocryphal, as far as regards any bro- ther of Shakespeare’s. They were a short-lived race. His sister, indeed, survived him thirty years. The family at New Place, at this perod, would be composed therefore of his wife only, and his unmarried daughter Judith ; unless his elder daughter and his son-in-law formed a part of the same household, with their only child Elizabeth, who was born in 1608. That Shake- speare assisted with all the energy of his character in alleviating the miseries resulting from the great fire in 1614, and in the restoration of his town, we cannot doubt. John Combe, the old companion of Shakespeare, died at the very hour that the great fire was raging at Stratford. According to the inscrip- tion on his monument, he died on the lOth of July, 1614. Upon his tomb is a fine recumbent figure executed by the same sculptor who, a few years later, set up in the same Chancel a monument to one who, “ when that stone is rent,” shall still be “ fresh to all ages.” Shakespeare was at this period fifty years old. He was in all probability healthful and vigorous. His life was a pure and simple one ; and its chances of endurance were the greater, that high intellectual occupation, not forced upon him by necessity, varied the even course of his tranquil existence. His retro- spections of the past would, we believe, be eminently happy. In the same year we find him taking some interest in the project of an inclosure of the common- fields of Stratford. The inclosure would probably have improved his property, and especially have in- creased the value of the tithes, of the moiety of which he held a lease. The Corporation of Stratford were opposed to the inclosure. They held that it would be injurious to the poorer inhabitants, who were then deeply suffering from the desolation of the fire ; and they appear to have been solicitous that Shakespeare should take the same view of the matter as themselves. His friend William Combe, then high sheriff of the county, was a principal person engaged in forwarding the inclosure. The Corporation sent their common clerk, Thomas Greene, to London, to oppose the pro- ject ; and a Memorandum in his handwriting, which still remains, exhibits the business-like manner in which Shakespeare informed himself of the details of the plan. The first memorandum is dated the 17th of November, 1614, and is as follows: — “My Cosen Shakspeare comyng yesterday to town, I went to see how he did. He told me that they assured him they ment to inclose no further than to Gospel Bush, and so upp straight (leaving out pt. of the Dyngles to the field) to the gate in Clopton hedg, and take in Sali.sbury’s peece ; and that they mean in Aprill to svey. the land and then to gyve satisfaccion, and not i6o Life of Shakespeare. before : and he and Mr. Hall say they think yr. will be nothyng done at all.” Mr. Greene appears to have returned to Stratford in about a fortnight after the date of this memorandum, and Shakespeare seems to have remained in London ; for according to a second memorandum, which is damaged and partly illegible, an official letterwas written to Shakespeare by the Corporation, accompanied by a private letter from Mr, Greene, moving him to exert his influence against this plan of the inclosure : — “ 23 Dec. A. Hall, Lres. wrytten, one to Mr. Manyring — another to Mr. Shak- speare, with almost all the company’s hands to eyther. I also wrytte myself to my Csn. Shakspear, the coppyes of all our then also a note of the inconveny- ences wold ... by the inclosure.” Arthur Manner- ing, to whom one of these letters was written by the Corporation, was officially connected with the Lord Chancellor, and then residing at his house ; and from the letter to him, which has been preserved, “ it appears that he was apprised of the injury to be expected from the intended inclosure ; reminded of the damage that Stratford, then ‘ lying in the ashes of desolation,’ had sustained from recent fires ; and entreated to forbear the inclosure.” The letter to Shakespeare has not been discovered. The fact of its having been written leaves no doubt of the importance which was attached to his opinion by his neighbours. Truly in his later years he had “ Honour, love, obedience, troops of friends.” There is, however, evidence which shows in a curious may, the anxiety which he continued to feel about this threatened encroachment upon his property. Greene makes this further entry, under the date of the 1st of September, without giving the year ; but we can have no doubt that he must have been writing in 1615 : — “ Mr. Shakespeare told Mr. J. Greene that he was not able to bear the enclosing of Melcombe.” He did not live long enough to obtain the desired release from this petty trouble. The point in dispute was not decided until the year 1618, or two years after his death, when an order was issued by the Privy Council prohibiting the proposed inclosures. St. Mary Overies, or as others style it, St. Saviour’s Church, just across London Bridge in Southwark, would have great charm for Shakespeare during the period of his life and residence in London. We never worshiji in that fine old temple without feeling how oft he took part in the solemn service within its precincts, probably offering up his earnest (for we may be sure they were the outpourings of an understanding, fervent heart) prayers at the beautiful tomb of Gower, “ the moral Gower,” the friend and brother bard of Chaucer, who had been interred' there some two hundred years before. The dramatists Fletcher and Massinger also lie in this same church. Moreover his own younger brother Edmund, who had been identified with him in his theatrical life, and one of his fellow-players at the Globe theatre, was buried in this Mary Overies’ sanctuary, on the last day of December, 1607. As a chief mourner, then, ay, and a true one, too, the Great Bard has stood in this beautiful church. Chaucer and Gower, who may be styled the parents of English poetry — had left the earth more than a century and a half, when Shakespeare was born, A.D. 1564; and John Lydgate had rested in his grave about one hundred and thirty-four years. Skelton, Surrey, Wyatt, and others of lesser fame, after aiding in refining their native language, by many polished poems, now slept the sleep of death. The Reformation in religion, for which Wickliffe had contended two hundred years before, had spread wider than his scattered ashes ; and the lion-hearted Luther — The solitary monk who shook the world — had died in peace only eighteen years before. The Protestant prelates, Hooper, Ridley, Latimer, and Cranmer, with numerous other martyrs for conscience sake, had perished at the stake only nine years agone. One great object the people had already accom- plished in obtaining possession of the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue ; and no one can calculate the benefits which civilization has derived in every way from that simple boon. The printing-press — even in its then rude construction, a mighty auxiliary of human enlightenment — had only been introduced into England some eighty-seven years ; and the venerable Caxton, our first English printer, had rested from his labours for half a century, in his grave at Westminster. And yet how great were the results which that printing- press had already accomplished ! It had given the Bible and many of the Classics to the people, and even then was beginning to cause a demand for new con- tributions to literature ; so that henceforth an author would not be altogether dependent on a single patron, as before. Even in the provinces, as well as in the metropolis, were printing-presses springing up : for after the establishment of Caxton’s press, in 1477, we find others at London and St. Alban’s, in 1480; at York, in 1509 ; at Beverley, in 1510 ; at Southwark, in 1514; at Cambridge, in 1521 ; at Tavistock, in 1525 ; at Winchester, in 1545 ; at the castle of Bristol, in 1546; at Ipswich and Worcester, in 1548 ; at Can- terbury, in 1549 ; and at Greenwich. The personality of Shakespeare forms undoubtedly the most perplexing subject to which the Shakespearian student can direct his contemplation. The evidence is so various that we believe it must light us to a fair general knowledge of his life and of his character, if we will only look at it in a clear and an unprejudiced spirit. In his own numerous writings we cannot fail to t ■'s' . * t' * * * »r H ■ » " j*. /» . ' • yv ■ >. ., f, ... ■■■ / "r .V: , 4 -^ .. * • ;. • . ...V'. i ‘ ■’••' : y - :■ ■■ ■ ■ • .- ■ . ' ■'■- .-V^’^^ *‘■7 - ''''•'* •**'7 * r’ n ,•.■•• '■'V r^''i.'- ■■•■.; - ■ ' (4 V i-- .. 'V P ’"‘V ''^y^ . I >^*r <* •^'.V< V '% ' s'- » H •. ' J '• - <■ '.*^ '*^ ■<* "• .;,■;-■*■• . *> ■ 7' '•'■••*•' - . *■ ' '^V. ’'* 4 , •» . . ' \ ".V. » *< • , • ■ ■•T»-,»' - •■' ‘ * . ■'•» '•T‘-'>' '*■ •.>>■•., ,.V . • r‘*^ *7» . V-^'- V f\ ' ■-. ■ 'Vt, ...V v.V ■# i ? : i’" ->%s- • i^*c ' • ^ » • ' %' •• .'H* w/ .7 v^> "Jr ' A ''■? 'v^-*.' •■■>.■ ’ • '■ ' 'ifV/ i, ■ " •• .' .A “' ^ ••.>.'.• '. V * . . — a % ' '. • > . . j • • . » • .N'- ‘ • • ->A‘ - '-*^- '" .;**‘-;r'’ I'S, ■V ,r,- ,, • t'M ,v ;■«». ' i-i* 1*^ %■ ' ■ . I ' '•'^ •? . ... r: ‘4.i« » • <’ '. »i ^ • • ’• '■4'%;"■ ^ i-v !Gpop;,r{^E®^^ ■ ffeERt LYETH JNTERRH) T« BO^.iOF AnnE WE •WWluiXwrSHAkESPEARE WHODEfTED, THIS UFE TK ■ G'oki OF Are vilCii being or tk Ace of &7:yEARES "^liera {u'-mirtep-Tutevto^ \5]CmiIu;.fro-tAnfoniunEre saxa dabo . ■Q^^-iinaHern ; Ainouea^-Iaprfeiib bonas Aii^i ’ ore: 6brpui;ima^o. ;Sed nit vdfAi'a?enl:vEni*s CitcrChfi^?,-refufSct .giAiTfA^'lrcij 'ttiartirib • in'atei?:^^t^AstrA petfl 5 1^^ 1“® Shakespeare s Later Years and Death. find manifestations not only of his genius, but of his tastes and his temper. The antiquarian discoveries, too, will afford us an important aid in our attempt to realize and define this wonderful personality. Those discoveries are, no doubt, strangely limited and dis- connected ; but they come to us from a great variety of quarters ; and small as they are, when taken separately, if we should find, as we think we are sure to find, on a careful inquiry, that they all point to the same general conclusions, we may place even greater confidence in their accidental testimony than in more detailed revelations proceeding from fewer sources, and arranged upon some more preconcerted plan. The indefatigable Halliwell has brought together a very large amount of previously unpublished docu- mentary evidence, illustrative, not only of New Place and its vicissitudes, but of the habits and manners of the people of Stratford ; and the state of the town in and after the time of Shakespeare, and in face of the darkness which surrounds the great object of his researches, still the historian toils on with un- flagging industry and unfailing hope. Among the most interesting materials are- those which show the condition of Stratford in the time of Shake- peare ; and the sound inferences he draws from them to account for his almost sudden death, regarding which Halliwell, after patiently weighing all the statements and traditions, concludes that in all human probability he died of typhoid fever, arising from the bad drainage of the town, and the neglected state of Chapel Lane which flanked New Place. The filthy condition of this lane for a long series of years is proved by the town archives, showing numerous startling revelations ; and this view is confirmed by the cast taken after death, which shows the coun- tenance unemaciated, as it would have been after a short illness. Stratford has only during the present century, and indeed of late years, put on the garb of modern cleanliness in which she now appears, at the sacrifice of much that was picturesque and Shake- .spearian. Death. On the 25th of March, 1616, Shakespeare signed his will. It was drawn up on the 25th of the January preceding, and the necessary change was afterwards made in the name of the month. It is very probable that it was framed with a special reference to the approaching marriage of his daughter, as it contains a number of provisions which appear to have been introduced in the expectation of that event. He is there described as in “ perfect health and memory and so he was, perhaps, at the time the document was actually written ; but the three signatures of his name seem to indicate that they must have been traced by an invalid. The end, at all events, was now at hand. 161 On the 23rd of April, 1616, just as he had completed the fifty-second year of his age, the great poet passed from the scene on which his genius had shed so astonishing a light. The only evidence of any kind that has reached us with respect to Shakespeare’s last illness is the follow- ing sentence in a manuscript of the Rev. John Ward, who was appointed Vicar of Stratford in 1662 : — Shakespeare, Drayton, and Ben Jonson had a merry meeting, and, it seems, drank too hard, for Shakespeare died of a fever there contracted. According to a note at the end of Ward’s manu- script, “this book was begun February 14th, 1661-2, and finished April the 25th, 1663, at Mr. Brooks’s house in Stratford-upon-Avon, in Warwickshire.” Ward must unquestionably have had very rare oppor- tunities of obtaining correct information with respect, at all events, to what had been commonly supposed to have been the cause of the poet’s death at the time when that event had taken place. Judith Quiney, Shakespeare’s daughter, died in Stratford only a few days before the writing of those notes was begun ; and there must still, of course, have been several people in the town to whom the poet had been per- sonally known. It may be, no doubt, that the popular rumour had been from the commencement exaggerated, and to a great extent erroneous ; but it appears not unlikely that there had been some social meeting of the kind to which Ward refers, the which uncharitable gossips would exaggerate ; but that the great poet died of a fever is beyond all possible doubt. Dr. John Hall, who, we may feel assured, attended the death-bed of his father-in-law, has left manuscript notes of remarkable cases which came under his observation in the course of his professional practice ; but the curious in Shakespearian lore are here pur- sued by their usual ill-luck ; those notes do not begin until the year 1617, the year immediately following the poet’s death. On the 25th of April, 1616, two days after the poet’s death, his remains were interred in the chancel of Stratford Church. Over them has been placed a flat stone, bearing the following inscription : — Good frend for Jesus sake forbeare. To digg the dust encloased heare : Bleste be the man that spares thes stones, And curst be he that moves my bones. The old parish clerk with whom Dowdall was in communication, in the year 1693, stated that this epi- taph was written by Shakespeare himself, “ a little before his death.” The lines may afford no indication of Shakespeare’s genius, but we believe that they pro- ceeded from his hand. At all events, the injunction which they so emphatically convey has hitherto been, Y i 62 Life of Shakespeare. and will, no doubt, for ever continue to be scrupu- lously obeyed. Undisturbed and unseen, he “sleeps well ” through the long night of time. The public grief at his death, the belief in his happy end, and the veneration for his memory, are in this monumental couplet tersely expressed. His fame must have been great during life, when it could be written that in judgment he equalled Nestor, in genius Socrates, in art Virgil. Referring to the prudence and worth of Shake- speare’s private character, there is one collateral proof that deserves notice. If we look around among his companions, fellow-actors, or writers, we observe an honourable contrast in his career. With few ex- ceptions, we find them to have been wild livers, licentious brawlers, and coming to evil ends — a record of follies and crimes, from which it is a relief to turn to the quiet home of the retired dramatist at Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare seems to have passed unscathed through the miserable ordeal of stage-life in those days, the general records of which are an instructive warning, rendered the more notable by his exceptional escape from the perilous state. Ben Jonson slew a comrade, and was always in troubled waters ; Marlowe, only two months older than Shakespeare, was killed in a miserable brawl at the age of thirty-one ; “ Pyeboard ” Peele was a sheer profligate ; Robert Greene, Ford, Lyly, — we might give a sad list of contemporary players and writers for the stage whose histories would curiously illustrate the habits of the times in which Shakespeare lived, not without moral instruction. The only near relatives of Shakespeare who survived him were his wife, his daughter Susanna, who was married to Dr. John Hall ; his grand daughter, Eliza- beth Hall ; his daughter Judith, who was married to Thomas Quiney ; and his sister Joan, who married a hatter in Stratford, named William Hart. Of Gilbert Shakespeare, no other record remains than the brief registry of his baptism. “ I have no doubt,” says Skottowe, “ that Gilbert lived till after the Restoration of Charles II.” “The register, in- deed,” says the same author, “ mentions the burial of Gilbert Shakespeare, adolescens, in 1611-12, who might or might not have been the son of the elder Gilbert. Truly, is it said, there is something melan- choly in the brief histories of a parish register ! What reveries they give rise to as one looks upon them in an idle hour ! how imagination tries to depict the beings whose entrance or exit from the stage of life they chronicle ! and when one is in a contemplative mood — a state of mind they are indeed apt to beget — how touching, to a feeling heart, is the less than “ tombstone information” they give. “ Every line,” as Ord well observes, “ chronicles a whole life, its fears, hopes, enjoyments, aspirations. What a record of humanity — what heart-histories — what wondrous bio- graphy !” And such is all the history we now possess of Gilbert, the brother of William Shakespeare ! We may guess him to have been a player like his eldest brother, William, and his youngest brother, Edmund. The poet’s wife died on the 6th of August, and was buried on the 8th of the same month, in the year 1623. The bequest which he makes to her in his will, of his “ second-best bed,” doubtless that in which, as hus- band and wife, they had slept together, the so-called “ best ” being reserved for visitors, is intelligible enough, and needs none of the disquisitions of the would-be wise. We know that his wife was entitled, by law, to a jointure — the property being principally freehold, the widow, by the ordinary operation of the law of England, would be entitled to what is legally known as “ dower,” — and that it was not, therefore, necessary he should have made any express provision for her maintenance. Dr. Hall died on the 25th of November, 1635, and Mrs. Hall on the nth of July, 1649. Their only child, Elizabeth, was married, first, in 1626, to Thomas Nash, who died in 1647, without issue ; and, secondly, in 1649, to John (afterwards Sir John) Barnard, of Abington, in the county of Northampton, by whom also, she had no family. She herself died in the year 1670, and with her was extinguished the lineal descent from Shakespeare. Judith Quiney, the poet’s second daughter, had three sons, all of whom she lost in their infancy or their early youth, while her own life was prolonged until the commencement of the month of Eebruary, 1661-2. She was buried on the 9th of that month. Joan Hart, the only child of John and Mary Shake- speare, who appears to have survived their eldest son, William, died in the month of November, 1646. She had several children, and there were, not many years since, descendants of hers at Stratford, where they, lived in very humble, and even indigent, circum- stances. The above brief statement sums up all the fortunes of the family for which the great poet had once so earnestly laboured, and for whose continued worldly prosperity he had, by the last act of his life, most carefully provided. But “ all flesh is grass,” and glory is but an idle name. His freehold estates, which he devised in the first instance to his eldest daugfhter, were strictly entailed ; but the entail was afterwards barred, and the property passed into the hands of strangers. We have endeavoured to weave a web e.xplanatory' of the very numerous Illustrations forming this work. Our photographer, George H. Dunmore, produced in every instance from nature the negatives, from which by Heliotype process most of the illustrations of Shakespeare s Later Years and Death. this work are printed, and we refer with great pleasure to that gentleman’s ability and earnestness. The pleasant task is completed, and a worthier pen records how the great bard sleeps beside his native Avon, which glides placidly onward to blend its waters with the Severn, and flows still with the same unruffled current past the grey walls of Trinity Church, as when the remains of the poet were borne thither to their last resting-place. Like the perennial course of its waters, the genius of Shakespeare maintains ever the same constant flow, and diffuses its ennobling influence over the varied fields of literature and intellect. Changed is the aspect of the land where he dwelt ; the social and political institutions of his time, like most of its material edifices, have crumbled to dust ; and in the progress of industry and knowledge, a wondrous change has taken place in the face of nature, in manners and customs, and in modes of thought. But the elements of which all these are composed have ever remained unaltered : still does the spring bring forth its buds, the summer its flowers 163 and foliage, the autumn its fruit and golden harvest, and the winter its rains, its snows, and its tempests. The human heart still throbs with joy or with sorrow ; its desires, aversions, and motives, whatever external form they may assume, have been in every age essentially the same. The faithful delineator of man and nature, in their many and diversified phases, at whatever age of the world he may have lived, will always continue to be appreciated and reverenced. Such a one was William Shakespeare, whose laurels, after the lapse of nearly three hundred years, are still green, and whose name and writings will maintain their exalted position through all time, and till time itself shall be no more. With him virtue was ever victorious ; undaunted under suffering, and tri- umphant even in death. His name will reverberate through the world — From day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time. Macbeth, Act v. Scene 5. Y 2 Life of Shakespeare. 164 Altogether there are Six authentic Autographs of Shakespeare. The first of the underneath is from a small folio volume, the first edition of Florio’s “Translation of Montaigne,” and for which one hundred pounds were paid by the Trustees of the British Museum in 1838. From the Conveyance in the Signature from Facsimile of Mortgage Deed, Possession of the Corporation of London. which has been lost. Facsimile of Signature of Thomas Quiney, who married Shakespeare’s younger daughter Judith. Facsimile of Signature of Shakespeare’s Grand- daughter Elizabeth, the only child of his daughter Susanna, who was married, at eighteen, in 1626, to Mr. Thomas Nash of Stratford. He died in 1647, leaving no children. She remained a widow about two years, having married on the 5th May, 1649, Mr. John Barnard of Abington, near Northampton, who was a widower with a large family. Her husband was created a knight by Charles II. in 1661. Shakespeare’s grand-daughter died in February, 1670, and was buried at Abington. Her signature, with a seal, the same as that used by his mother — the arms of Hall impaled with those of Shakespeare. [SHAKESPEARE’S WILL.] Mtij Vicesimo Quinto Die J a fta ary ^ Anno Regni Dni nri Jacobi unice Rx Anglie &c. Decimo quarto & Scotie xlix“ Annoq^ Dni i6i6 T. W'"j Shackspeare In the name of god Amen I Willim Shackspeare of Stratford vpon Avon in the countie of warr gent in pfect health & memorie god be praysed doe make & Ordayne this my last will & testam* in mann & forme followeing That ys to saye ffirst I Comend my Soule into the hands of god my Creator hoping & assuredlie beleeving through th onelie meritts of Jesus Christe my Saviour to be made ptaker of lyfe everlastinge And my bodye to the Earth whereof yt ys made Itm I Gyve & bequeath vnto my s otme & Daughter Judyth One hundred & ffyftie pounds of lawful English money to be paied vnto her in mann & forme followeing That ys to in discharge of her marriage porcon saye One hundred pounds ^ w‘*'in one yeare after my deceas w^' consideracon after the Rate of twoe Shillings in the pound for soe long tyme as the same shalbe vnpaied vnto her after my Deceas & the ffyftie pounds Residewe thereof of • vpon her Surrendring ^ or gyving of such sufficient securitie as the overseers of this my Will shall like of to Surrender or grante All her estate and Right that that shee shall discend or come vnto her after my deceas or ^ nowe hath of in or to one Copiehold tehte w"* thapptennSs lyeing and being in Stratford vpon Avon aforesaied in the saied countie of warr being pcell or holden of the manno^ of Rowington vnto my Daughter Susanna Hall & her heires for ever Itm I Gyve & bequeath vnto my saied Daughter Judith One hundred & ffyftie pounds more if she or Anie issue of her bodie be Lyvinge att thend of three yeares next ensueing the Daie of the Date of this my Will during w^** tyme my executo"^® to paie her consideracon from my deceas according to the Rate aforesaied And if she Dye w‘*'in the saied terme w*out issue of her bodye then my Will ys & I Doe gyve & bequeath One Hundred Pounds thereof to my neece Elizabeth Hall & the ffiftie Pounds to be sett fourth by my execute^® during the lief of my Sister Johane Harte & the vse & pffitt thereof cominge shalbe payed to my saied Sister lone & after her deceas the saied 1‘‘ shall Remaine Amongst the children of my saied Sister Equallie to be Devided Amongst them But if my said Daughter Judith be lyving att thend of the saied three yeares or anye yssue of her bodye then my will ys & soe I Devise & bequeath the by my executors & overseers saied Hundred & ffiftie pounds to be sett out ^ for the best benefitt of her & her the Stock to be issue & A not ^ paied vnto her soe long as She shalbe marryed & covert Baron by mf e -v e cu te''^ & overseers but my will ys that she shall have the consideracon yearelie paied vnto her during her lief & after her deceas the saied stock and consideracon to bee paied to her children if she have Anie & if not to her execute''® or assigns she lyving the saied terme after my deceas Provided that if such husbond as she shall att thend of the saied three yeares be marryed vnto or attaine after doe sufficients Assure vnto her & thissue of her bodie lands Awnswereable to the porcon by this my will gyven vnto her & to be adiudged soe by my execute''® & overseers then my will ys that the saied C P' shalbe paied to such husbond as shall make such assurance to his owne vse Itih I gyve & bequeath vnto my saied sister lone xx'* & all my wearing Apparrell to be paied & delivded w“‘in one year the house ^ after my Deceas And I Doe will & devise vnto her ^ w"' thapptenncs in Stratford wherein she dwellcth for her naturall lief vnder the yearlie Rent of xii** Itm I gyve & bequeath Life of Shakespeare. 1 66 vnto her three sonns Willim Harte Hart & Michaell Harte ffyve pounds A peece to be payed w‘*'in one yeare after my deceas te be sett ewt fof her e«e yeare after «ay d e ce as fey my e x e cu te*'^ t’bticl V isG clu'ocooiis of ov e r -se er s for her feest ^ ffi - tt vetiW feer marriage & then tfte same tfee hior e a se th er e of te fee paied vmte the saied Elizabeth Hall (except my brod silver & gilt bole) her Itm I gyve & bequeath vnto fern All my Plate ^ that I now have att the date of this my will Itm I gyve & bequeath vnto the Poore of Stratford aforesaied tenn pounds to Mr. Thomas Combe my Sword to Thomas Russell Esquier ffyve pounds & to fifrauncis Collins of the Borough of warr in the countie of warr gent thirteene pounds Sixe shillings and Eight pence to be paied w*’’in Hamlett Sadler one Yeare after my deceas Itm I gyve & bequeath to -Mr. dii e hard to Willim Raynolds gent xxvj‘ viij** to buy him A Ringe ?yler t b e f d^ xxvi® viij'^ to buy him A Ringe ^ to my godson Willm Walker xx® in gold to Anthonye Nashe gent xvvj® vlii*^ & to Mr. & to my ffellowes John Hemyngs Richard Burbage & Henry Cundell xxvj® viy"* Apeece to buy them Ringes John Nashe xxvj^ viij'* m geid ^ Itm I Gyve will bequeath & devise vnto for better enabling of her to pforme this my will & towards the pformans thereof my Daughter Susanna Hall ^ All that Capitall messuage or tehte in Stratford aforesaid w*** thapptenncs ^ called the newe place wherein I nowe Dwell & twoe Messuags or tehtes w*’’ thapptennSs scitvat lyeing & being in Henley Streete w**’in the borough of Stratford aforesaied And all my barnes stables Orchards gardens lands tents & hereditam*® whatsoev scituat lyeing & being or to be had Receyved pceyved or taken w"’in the towns Hamletts Villags fhelds & grounds of Stratford vpon Avon Oldstratford Bushopton & Welcombe or in anie of them in the saied countie of warr And alsoe All that Messuage or tente w*** thapptenncs wherein One John Robinson dwelleth scituat lyeing & being in the blackfriers in London nere the Wardrobe & all othL my lands tents & hereditam*® whatsoev To have & to hold All & singler the saied pmiffs w**' their App'^teniitcs vnto the saied Susanna Hall for & during the terme of her naturall lief & after her deceas to the first sonne of her bodie lawfullie yssueing & to the heires Males of the bodie of the saied first Sonne lawfullie yssueinge & for defalt of such issue to the second Sonne of her bodie lawfullie issueinge & to the heires Males of the bodie of the saied Second Sonne lawfullie yfsuinge and for defalt of such heires to the third Sonne of the bodie of the said Susanna Lawfullie yssueing & of the heires males of the bodie of the saied third sonne lawfullie yssueing And for defalt of such yssue the same soe to be & Remaine to the ffourth S onn e ffyfth Sixte & Seaventh sonnes of her bodie lawfullie issueing one after Anoth' & to the heires Shakespeare s Will. 167 Males of the bodies of the saied ffourth fifth Sixte & Seaventh sonnes lawfullie yssueing in such manh as yt ys before Lymitted to be & Remaine to the first second & third Sonnes of her bodie & to their heires males And for defalt of such issue the saied ^miffs to be & Remaine to my sayed Neece Hall & the heires Males of her bodie Lawfullie yssueing & for defalt of such issue to my Daughter Judith & the heires males of her bodie lawfully issueinge And for defalt of such issue to the Right heires of me the saied Willm Itm I gyve vnto my wief my second best bed w*'‘ the furniture Shackspeare for ever ^ ItiS I gyve & bequeath to my saied Daughter Judith my broad silver gilt bole All the Rest of my goods Chattels Leases plate Jewels & household stuffe whatsoev after my Detts and Legasies paied & my funerall expences discharged I gyve devise & bequeath to my Sonne in Lawe John Hall gent & my Daughter Susanna his wief whom I ordaine & make executo"^® of this my the saied Last will & testam* And I doe intreat & Appoint ^ Thomas Russell Esquier & ffrauncis Collins gent to be overseers kereof And doe Revoke All form wills & publishe this to be my last will & testam^ In Witness whereof I have herevnto put my hand Seale the Daie & Yeare first above written. Witness to the publishing hereof, Fra : Colly ns Julyus Shawe John Robinson Hamnet Sadler Robert Whattcott Probatum cora Magri Willimi Byrde legum Dcore Comiss““ &c. xxij'*° die menss Junij Anno Dni 1616 Juram‘" Johannis Hall vnius ex &c. Cui &c. De bene &c. Jurat. — Resvat ptate &c. Susanne Hall alt ex &c. cuS velilit &c. petitur. (Inv‘ ex‘) THE END. LONDON : GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, PRINTERS, ST. John’s square. '•'if UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-UHBANA ^£S-' rsa 5i«iUi^ ^fcf^iefi; suns : ^ ;r^ tS tti?T.TK>:iift5£/-.T3att;w*'iS£s5irTT?rT — Jr.ia :^air,^--n:x^ -H-'; u-rr: ’A.Hf. X f I ' ^-i;'- -^'W;,. j 1^. "'^te? 5 L'~ 4 ^fegg 4 -j- 4 £ Mjf -■•"•y^.^--^;!^!----— -'---, " -j- ,’“, - -- -_£i . e--;^-:tC z'~ ,v -:= -i'ln.-nr- . c ' -tW^jL-SXft '-'■; “r--,^"^*'T ■ • -'■-r" -5' 2. •■ '- ! ' ' . ‘ '", - “ j, -' T - ^^-7-^ -^;:J .^r.,n .; „ J-,. ^ - '-’ - - - 1 -r , — -c . I'U r>i^'>-i^Vis--E- ■ .■:t: *■ --^j ~^~ -^.-:-r-‘— v.-.:- -.r y^'i l.-.IT'.'.'S -Viar^iji.- -»“.?• •T—i’-^i-.Ur. -Ajt t — i- . ■ • ■ .•:.•• "i A -- Jtr "_«- ■'* 1 ?^— a'' » j\l*^ ^- ~ - ^1.- Y ■'•■ vf ^.Tf.'*' -^TiV ••'.•••. --. ^ " T. „ . V / "• r:^-;l \l ' A « “ V r,. ) - ^ _j?rSy^»r- “-V- p-r i - . - 3 -' . 7 :!; 3 ^ -f-- ■" ^ ' -^7 '"■' -' - ■ T' ’2" ",v I ' ■^ir ’’'- '- '*. r»- r-- -> 1 » %Tc‘ ' _’.Tf T’? '■ %:•■ ■ ; iilliililpa < j, '*'• ' *<- *- V.:- "■' fTgj ; wm.:M - ■- . : . ...iS^ ■:•:••.••■. f/-