I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like anunbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was to be foundin the company of all kinds of odd anomalous characters; that heassociated with all the madcaps of the place, and was one of thoseunlucky urchins, at mention of whom old men shake their heads, andpredict that they will one day come to the gallows. To him thepoaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to aScottish knight, and struck his eager, and, as yet untamed,imagination, as something delightfully adventurous.** A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in hisyouthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up atStratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his "PicturesqueViews on the Avon."About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market townof Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the villageyeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers,and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages toa contest of drinking. Among others, the people of Stratford werecalled out to prove the strength of their heads; and in the numberof the champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the proverb that"they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale asFalstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at thefirst onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carrythem off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile when, theirlegs failing them, they were forced to lie down under a crab-tree,where they passed the night. It is still standing, and goes by thename of Shakspeare's tree.
In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposedreturning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough havingdrank withPiping Pebworth, Dancing Marston,
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton,
Drudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford,
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford.
"The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear theepithets thus given them: the people of Pebworth are still famed fortheir skill on the pipe and tabor; Hilborough is now called HauntedHilborough; and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil."The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still remainin the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarlyinteresting, from being connected with this whimsical but eventfulcircumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house stood butlittle more than three miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved topay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely throughsome of those scenes from which Shakspeare must have derived hisearliest ideas of rural imagery.
The country was yet naked and leafless; but English scenery isalways verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of theweather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the landscape.
It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awakening ofspring; to feel its warm breath stealing over the senses; to see themoist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and thetender blade: and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints andbursting buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. Thecold snow-drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was tobe seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before thecottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard fromthe fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and buddinghedges; the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintrystrain; and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of themeadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forthtorrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, mounting uphigher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the whitebosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music,it called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite 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 every thing that pretty bin,
My lady sweet arise!
