STRATFORD-ON-AVON
by Washington Irving
Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver streamOf things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream;The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed,For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.
GARRICK.
TO a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he cantruly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of something likeindependence and territorial consequence, when, after a weary day'stravel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, andstretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as itmay; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal topay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all hesurveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and thelittle parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is amorsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties oflife; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day: and hewho has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows theimportance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. "ShallI not take mine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave the fire astir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent lookabout the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon.
The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through my mind asthe clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in which helies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a prettychambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with ahesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest hintthat it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at anend; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid beingdeposed, and putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as apillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare,the jubilee, and David Garrick.
The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which wesometimes have in early spring; for it was about the middle ofMarch. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way; the northwind had spent its last gasp; and a mild air came stealing from thewest, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every budand flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty.
I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit wasto the house where Shakspeare was born, and where, according totradition, he was brought up to his father's craft of wool-combing. Itis a small, mean-looking edifice of wood and plaster, a truenestling-place of genius, which seems to delight in hatching itsoffspring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are coveredwith names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of allnations, ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant; andpresent a simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous anduniversal 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 artificiallocks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. Shewas peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this,like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shatteredstock of the very matchlock with which Shakspeare shot the deer, onhis poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box; which provesthat he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh: the sword alsowith which he played Hamlet; and the identical lantern with whichFriar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb! There was anample supply also of Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, which seems to haveas extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the truecross; of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line.
The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shakspeare'schair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small gloomy chamber, justbehind what was his father's shop. Here he may many a time have satwhen a boy, watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing ofan urchin; or of an evening, listening to the cronies and gossips ofStratford, dealing forth church-yard tales and legendary anecdotesof the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom ofevery one that visits the house to sit: whether this be done withthe hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a lossto say, I merely mention the fact; and mine hostess privatelyassured me, that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zealof devotees, that the chair had to be new-bottomed at least once inthree years. It is worthy of notice also, in the history of thisextraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile natureof the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabianenchanter; for though sold some few years since to a northernprincess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to theold chimney corner.
I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing to bedeceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I amtherefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotesof goblins and great men; and would advise all travellers who travelfor their gratification to be the same. What is it to us, whetherthese stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade ourselvesinto the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality? Thereis nothing like resolute good-humored credulity in these matters;and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe theclaims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when,luckily, for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her owncomposition, which set all belief in her consanguinity at defiance.
