Page:Once a Week Volume 8.djvu/470

462  supposed birthday, the anniversary of his death, certainly) for the day of the solemnization of her own marriage:—a curious rattling together, it must be owned, of christening cups, apostle spoons, wedding rings, and bed-curtain rings, fonts, favours, altars, caudle cups, wine cups, cradles, beds of Ware, coffins, and funeral baked meats.

As there is no authority for fixing the twenty-third (the day of St. George, the patron saint of England) as Shakespeare’s birthday, and no real ground for fixing a particular day, and setting it apart as one to be observed with the honours due to the day that gave us a giant among giants—let us see what was the ordinary interval of time observed between birth and baptism when Shakespeare was in the flesh, and even later. Edward Alleyn, the actor (a man well known to Shakespeare), was baptised the day after his birth. Oliver Cromwell was baptised four days after his birth, and Milton eleven days after. Aubrey, the antiquary and astrologer, was born on the 11th of March, 1625, and being “very weak and like to die,” was christened before morning prayer the same day. Ashmole, the astrologer and herald, was born on the 23rd of May, 1617, and was baptised the 2nd of June following. The great Earl of Clarendon was baptised four days after his birth. Coming nearer to our own time, the author of “The Seasons” was four days old when carried to the font; and the author of the “Pleasures of Imagination” twenty-one. Eighteen days elapsed between Hogarth’s birth and his baptism; and Boswell’s “Johnson” was baptised ten days after birth. I will not weary my readers with other instances.

As to the godfathers of the “divine William”—who were they? The question is put, and Echo answers of necessity, “I do not know.” In this dilemma, Malone rushes to our aid with his “perhaps” and “may be,” forgetting that perhapses are seldom profitable, and that “Maybees are never honey-bees.” In a borough of the size of Stratford-upon-Avon in 1564, more than one William was to be found when Shakespeare was born. The parish register would fully prove this fact, and to this Malone had recourse, as the only Post Office Directory, Blue Book, Red Book, Trades’ Directory, and Court Guide of Stratford-upon-Avon in the year 1564. He unearthed two Williams,—both Smyths (of course)—the one a mercer, the other a haberdasher. It is idle to attempt to guess which Smyth gave the name of William to England’s greatest poet. Could it have been William of Cloudesley, or William Rufus, or that William of Hastings, who reigned before Richard the Third, celebrated in seventeenth-century story books of scandal as William the Conqueror, or, peradventure, William of Malmesbury?

Next year, A.D. 1864, is the third centenary of Shakespeare’s birth. What day in April shall we choose for our exhibition of gratitude and admiration to this great benefactor of mankind—to the great poet who has given, and will long continue to give, employment and bread to printers, stationers, binders, and publishers, to actors and to scene-painters? To take no higher view than is implied in this mercantile estimate of the great poet’s value, even in this lowest sense think what a true benefactor to the world has this man, William Shakespeare, been. What day, then, shall we choose? “Nay, Gots lords and his ladies,” says Sir Hugh Evans, “you must speak possitable.” What mulberry-tree table shall we find large enough to give ample room and verge enough for his still circling admirers? What chairman’s voice will ever reach the furthest seat of the Walhalla of that day—be it the 22nd or the 23rd of April, 1864,—when we shall celebrate with all due honours the third centenary of William Shakespeare’s birth? 2em

violet beds are flushed again,

Purple and white commingled run,

And countless yellow daffodils

Are flashing in the morning sun!

I take the path beside the brook,

O’ershadowed by the hawthorn tree;

I love to see the crystal stream

For ever falling to the sea.

For as I tread the bright green grass,

Shooting towards heaven its tender spears,

Then many happy thoughts come back,

And memories of other years.

Full fifty winters passed away,

Full fifty summers quickly fled,

And many friends have left me here,

And many, many more, are dead,

And well I mind a day like this,

Now fifty long, long years ago,

I brought my wife this very way

To see the early violets blow.

But she has gone these many years,

(’Twas such another April day),

Into the land beyond the sun,

Where flowers of spring shall bloom for aye.

And so as spring returns again,

Again I love to wander here;

I think my winter must be gone,

And spring-time drawing very near.

I love the flowers, the fields, the grass,

Lit with the happy morning sun,

And think, as by the brook I pass,

Sure, winter must at last be done!

One gentle lesson still remains,

It comes with every year anew,—

These flowers have waited for the Spring,

And I must wait in patience too!