I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and Ifelt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the justice treatedSir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a last year's pippin of hisown grafting, with a dish of caraways;" but I had already spent somuch of the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to give up anyfurther investigations. When about to take my leave I was gratified bythe civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I wouldtake some refreshment: an instance of good old hospitality which, Igrieve to say, we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. Imake no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of theLucys inherits from his ancestors; for Shakspeare, even in hiscaricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, aswitness his pressing instances to Falstaff.
"By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night * * * I willnot excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not beadmitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused * ** Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens; a joint ofmutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook."I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind hadbecome so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes andcharacters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually livingamong them. Every thing brought them as it were before my eyes; and asthe door of the dining-room opened, I almost expected to hear thefeeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his favorite 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 giftof the poet; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind overthe very face of nature; to give to things and places a charm andcharacter not their own, and to turn this "working-day world" into aperfect fairy land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spelloperates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart.
Under the wizard influence of Shakspeare I had been walking all day ina complete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism ofpoetry, which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. Ihad been surrounded with fancied beings; with mere airy nothings,conjured up by poetic power; yet which, to me, had all the charm ofreality. I had heard Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak: had beheldthe fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands;and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat JackFalstaff and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, downto the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousandhonors and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dullrealities of life with innocent illusions; who has spread exquisiteand unbought pleasures in my chequered path; and beguiled my spirit inmany a lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies ofsocial life!
As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused tocontemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, andcould not but exult in the malediction, which has kept his ashesundisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor could hisname have derived from being mingled in dusty companionship with theepitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude?
What would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, comparedwith this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautifulloneliness as his sole mausoleum! The solicitude about the grave maybe but the offspring of an over-wrought sensibility; but humannature is made up of foibles and prejudices; and its best andtenderest affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. Hewho has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvestof worldly favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, noadmiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs upin his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peaceand honor among his kindred and his early friends. And when theweary heart and failing head begin to warn him that the evening oflife is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to themother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of hischildhood.
How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard when,wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back aheavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen that, beforemany years, he should return to it covered with renown; that hisname should become the boast and glory of his native place; that hisashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious treasure; andthat its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearfulcontemplation, should one day become the beacon, towering amidst thegentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to histomb!
THE END
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1819-20
