CHAPTERXIIITHE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN

American interest in Stratford-upon-Avon springs out of a love for the works of Shakespeare as profound and passionate as that of the most sensitive and reverent of the poet's countrymen. It was the father of American literature, Washington Irving, who in modern times made the first pilgrimage to that holy land, and set the good example, which since has been followed by thousands, of worship at the shrine of Shakespeare. It was an American, the alert and expeditious P. T. Barnum, who by suddenly proposing to buy the Shakespeare cottage and transfer it to America startled the English into buying it for the nation. It is, in part, to Americans that Stratford owes the Shakespeare Memorial; for while the land on which it stands was given by that public-spirited citizen of Stratford, Charles Edward Flower,—a sound and reverent Shakespeare scholar, as his acting edition of the plays may testify,—and while money to pay for the building of it was freely contributed by wealthy residents of Warwickshire, and bymen of all ranks throughout the kingdom, the gifts and labours of Americans were not lacking to that good cause. Edwin Booth was one of the earliest contributors to the Memorial fund, and the names of Mr. Herman Vezin, Mr. M. D. Conway, Mr. W. H. Reynolds, Mrs. Bateman, and Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton appear in the first list of its subscribers. Miss Kate Field worked for its advancement, with remarkable energy and practical success. Miss Mary Anderson acted for its benefit, on August 29, 1885. In the church of the Holy Trinity, where Shakespeare's dust is buried, a beautiful stained window, illustrative, scripturally, of that solemn epitome of human life which the poet makes in the speech of Jaques on the seven ages of man, evinces the practical devotion of the American pilgrim; and many a heart has been thrilled with reverent joy to see the soft light that streams through its pictured panes fall gently on the poet's grave.

Wherever in Stratford you come upon anything associated, even remotely, with the name and fame of Shakespeare, there you will find the gracious tokens of American homage. The libraries of the Birthplace and of the Memorial alike contain gifts of American books. New Place and Anne Hathaway's cottage are never omitted from the American traveller's round of visitations and duty of practical tribute. The Falcon, with its store of relics; the romantic Shakespeare Hotel, with its rambling passages, its quaint rooms named after Shakespeare's characters, its antique bar parlour, and the rich collection of autographs and pictures that has been made by Mrs. Justins; the Grammar School, in which no doubt the poet, "with shining morningface" of boyhood, was once a pupil; John Marshall's antiquarian workshop, from which so many of the best souvenirs of Stratford have proceeded,—a warm remembrance of his own quaintness, kindness, and originality being perhaps the most precious of them; the Town Hall, adorned with Gainsborough's eloquent portrait of Garrick, to which no engraving does justice; the Guild chapel; the Clopton bridge; Lucy's mill; the footpath across fields and roads to Shottery, bosomed in great elms; and the ancient picturesque building, four miles away, at Wilmcote, which was the home of Mary Arden, Shakespeare's mother,—each and every one of those storied places receives, in turn, the tribute of the wandering American, and each repays him a hundredfold in charming suggestiveness of association, in high thought, and in the lasting impulse of sweet and soothing poetic reverie. At the Red Horse, where Mr. William Gardner Colbourne maintains the traditions of old-fashioned English hospitality, he finds his home; well pleased to muse and dream in Washington Irving's parlour, while the night deepens and the clock in the distant tower murmurs drowsily in its sleep. Those who will may mock at his enthusiasm. He would not feel it but for the spell that Shakespeare's genius has cast upon the world. He ought to be glad and grateful that he can feel that spell; and, since he does feel it, nothing could be more natural than his desire to signify that he too, though born far away from the old home of his race, and separated from it by three thousand miles of stormy ocean, has still his part in the divine legacy of Shakespeare, the treasure and the glory of the English tongue.

Henry Irving. 1888.

A noble token of this American sentiment, and a permanent object of interest to the pilgrim in Stratford, is supplied by the Jubilee gift of a drinking-fountain made to that city by George W. Childs of Philadelphia. It never is a surprise to hear of some new instance of that good man's constant activity and splendid generosity in good works; it is only an accustomed pleasure.[45]With fine-art testimonials in the old world as well as at home his name will always be honourably associated. A few years ago he presented a superb window of stained glass to Westminster Abbey, to commemorate, in Poets' Corner, George Herbert and William Cowper. He has since given to St. Margaret's church, Westminster, where John Skelton and Sir James Harrington [1611-1677] were entombed, and where was buried the headless body of Sir Walter Raleigh, a pictorial window commemorative of John Milton. His fountain at Stratford was dedicated on October 17, 1887, with appropriate ceremonies conducted by Sir Arthur Hodgson, of Clopton, then mayor, and amid generalrejoicing. Henry Irving, the leader of the English stage and the most illustrious of English actors since the age of Garrick, delivered an address of singular felicity and eloquence, and also read a poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes. The countrymen of Mr. Childs are not less interested in this structure than the community that it was intended to honour and benefit. They observe with satisfaction and pride that he has made this beneficent, beautiful, and opulent offering to a town which, for all of them, is hallowed by exalted associations, and for many of them is endeared by delightful memories. They sympathise also with the motive and feeling that prompted him to offer his gift as one among many memorials of the fiftieth year of the reign of Queen Victoria. It is not every man who knows how to give with grace, and the good deed is "done double" that is done at the right time. Stratford had long been in need of such a fountain as Mr. Childs has given, and therefore it satisfies a public want, at the same time that it serves a purpose of ornamentation and bespeaks and strengthens a bond of international sympathy. Rother street, in which the structure stands, is the most considerable open place in Stratford, and is situated near the centre of the town, on the west side. There, as also at the intersection of High and Bridge streets, which are the principal thoroughfares of the city, the farmers, at stated intervals, range their beasts and wagons and hold a market. It is easy to foresee that Rother, embellished with this monument, which combines a convenient clock tower, a place of rest and refreshment for man, and commodious drinking-troughs for horses, cattle,dogs, and sheep, will soon become the agricultural centre of the region.

THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN

The base of the monument is made of Peterhead granite; the superstructure is of gray stone, from Bolton, Yorkshire. The height of the tower is fifty feet. On the north side a stream of water, flowing constantly from a bronze spout, falls into a polished granite basin. On the south side a door opens into the interior. The decorations include sculptures of the arms of Great Britain alternated with the eagle and stripes of the American republic. In the second story of the tower, lighted by glazed arches, is placed a clock, and on the outward faces of the third story appear four dials. There are four turrets surrounding a central spire, each surmounted with a gilded vane. The inscriptions on the base were devised by Sir Arthur Hodgson, and are these:

The gift of an American citizen, George W. Childs, of Philadelphia,to the town of Shakespeare, in the Jubilee yearof Queen Victoria.

In her days every man shall eat, in safetyUnder his own vine, what he plants; and singThe merry songs of peace to all his neighbours.God shall be truly known: and those about herFrom her shall read the perfect ways of honour,And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.HenryVIII.,Actv. Scene 4.

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 truly known: and those about her

From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,

And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.

HenryVIII.,Actv. Scene 4.

III

Honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.Timon of Athens,Acti. Scene 2.

Honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.

Timon of Athens,Acti. Scene 2.

Ten thousand honours and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions.—Washington Irving's Stratford-on-Avon.

Stratford-upon-Avon, fortunate in many things, is especially fortunate in being situated at a considerable distance from the main line of any railway. Two railroads skirt the town, but both are branches, and travel upon them has not yet become too frequent. Stratford, therefore, still retains a measure of its ancient isolation, and consequently a flavour of quaintness. Antique customs are still prevalent there, and odd characters may still be encountered. The current of village gossip flows with incessant vigour, and nothing happens in the place that is not thoroughly discussed by its inhabitants. An event so important as the establishment of the American Fountain would excite great interest throughout Warwickshire. It would be pleasant to hear the talk of those old cronies who drift into the bar parlour of the Red Horse on a Saturday evening, as they comment on the liberal American who has thus enriched and beautified their town. The Red Horse circle is but one of many in which the name of Childs is spoken with esteem and cherished with affection. The present writer has made many visits to Stratford and has passed much time there, and he has observed on many occasions the admiration and gratitude of the Warwickshire people for the American philanthropist. In the library of Charles Edward Flower, at Avonbank; in the opulent mansion of Edgar Flower, at the Hill; in the lovely home of Alderman Bird; at the hospitable tableof Sir Arthur Hodgson, in Clopton; and in many other representative places he has heard that name spoken, and always with delight and honour. Time will only deepen and widen the loving respect with which it is hallowed. In England, more than anywhere else on earth, the record of good deeds is made permanent, not alone with imperishable symbols, but in the hearts of the people. The inhabitants of Warwickshire, guarding and maintaining their Stratford Fountain, will not forget by whom it was given. Wherever you go, in the British islands, you find memorials of the past and of individuals who have done good deeds in their time, and you also find that those memorials are respected and preserved. Warwickshire abounds with them. Many such emblems might be indicated. Each one of them takes its place in the regard and gradually becomes entwined with the experience of the whole community. So it will be with the Childs Fountain at Stratford. The children trooping home from school will drink of it and sport in its shadow, and, reading upon its base the name of its founder, will think with pleasure of a good man's gift. It stands in the track of travel between Banbury, Shipston, Stratford, and Birmingham, and many weary men and horses will pause beside it every day, for a moment of refreshment and rest. On festival days it will be hung with garlands, while around it the air is glad with music. And often in the long, sweet gloaming of the summertimes to come the rower on the limpid Avon, that murmurs by the ancient town of Shakespeare, will pause with suspended oar to hear its silver chimes. If the founder of that fountain had been capable of a selfish thought he could have takenno way better or more certain than this for the perpetuation of his name in the affectionate esteem of one of the loveliest places and one of the most sedate communities in the world.

Mary Arden's Cottage.

Autumn in England—and all the country ways of lovely Warwickshire are strewn with fallen leaves. But the cool winds are sweet and bracing, the dark waters of the Avon, shimmering in mellow sunlight and frequent shadow, flow softly past the hallowed church, and the reaped and gleaned and empty meadows invite to many a healthful ramble, far and wide over the country of Shakespeare. It is a good time to be there. Now will the robust pedestrian make his jaunt to Charlecote Park and Hampton Lucy, to Stoneleigh Abbey, to Warwick and Kenilworth, to Guy's Cliff, with its weird avenue of semi-blasted trees, to theBlacklow Hill,—where sometimes at still midnight the shuddering peasant hears the ghostly funeral bell of Sir Piers Gaveston sounding ruefully from out the black and gloomy woods,—and to many another historic haunt and high poetic shrine. All the country-side is full of storied resorts and cosey nooks and comfortable inns. But neither now nor hereafter will it be otherwise than grateful and touching to such an explorer of haunted Warwickshire to see, among the emblems of poetry and romance which are its chief glory, this new token of American sentiment and friendship, the Fountain of Stratford.

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