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lieutenant in Prince Rupert's regiment, fought younger son of an old family resident near at the battle of Edgehill; and, subsequently Stratford, who had filled in succession the of betaking himself to the stage, he became the fices of Sheriff and of Lord Mayor of London. most renowned tragic actor of his time. "What In 1563 it was sold by one of the Clopton fa Mr. Hart delivers," says Rymer, (I adopt the mily to William Bott; and by him it was again citation from the page of Malone,) every one sold in 1570 to William Underhill, (the purcha takes upon content; their eyes are prepossessed ser and the seller being both of the rank of esand charmed by his action before aught of the quires,) from whom it was bought by our Poet, in poet's can approach their ears; and to the most 1597. By him it was bequeathed to his daughter, wretched of characters he gives a lustre and Susanna Hall; from whom it descended to her brilliancy, which dazzles the sight that the de- only child, Lady Barnard. In the June of 1643, formities in the poetry cannot be perceived." this Lady, with her first husband, Mr. Nash, "Were I a poet," (says another contemporary entertained, for nearly three weeks, at New writer,) nay a Fletcher or a Shakspeare, 1 Place, Henrietta Maria, the queen of Charles would quit my own title to immortality so that, when escorted by Prince Rupert and a large one actor might never die. This I may mo-body of troops, she was on her progress to meet destly say of him, (nor is it my particular opi- her royal consort, and to proceed with him to nion, but the sense of all mankind,) that the best Oxford. On the death of Lady Barnard with tragedies on the English stage have received out children, New Place was sold in 1675, to Sir their lustre from Mr. Hart's performance: that Edward Walker, Kt., Garter King at Arms; he has left such an impression behind him, that by whom it was left to his only child, Barbara, no less than the interval of an age can make married to Sir John Clopton, Kt., of Clopton them appear again with half their majesty from in the parish of Stratford. On his demise, it be any second hand." This was a brilliant erup-came the property of a younger son of his, Sir tion from the family of Shakspeare: but as it Hugh Clopton, Kt., (this family of the Cloptong was the first, so it appears to have been the seeins to have been peculiarly prolific in the last; and the Harts have ever since, as far at breed of knights), by whom it was repaired and least as it is known to us, pursued the noise-decorated at a very large expense. Malone afless tenor of their way," within the precincts of firms that it was pulled down by him, and its their native town on the banks of the soft-flow-place supplied by a more sumptuous edifice. ing Avon.* this statement were correct, the crime of its subWhatever is in any degree associated with the sequent destroyer would be greatly extenuated; personal history of Shakspeare is weighty with and the hand which had wielded the axe against generai interest. The circumstance of his birth the hallowed nalberry tree, would be absolved can impart consequence even to a provincial from the second act, imputed to it, of sacriletown; and we are not unconcerned in the pastgious violence. But Malone's account is, un or the present fortunes of the place, over which questionably, erroneous. In the May of 1742 ̧ hovers the glory of his name. But the house in Sir Hugh entertained Garrick, Macklin, and which he passed the last three or four years of Delany, under the shade of the Shakspearian his life, and in which he terminated his mortal mulberry. On the demise of Sir Hugh in the labours, is still more engaging to our imagina-December of 1751, New Place was sold by his tions, as it is more closely and personally con- son-in-law and executor, Henry Talbot, the nected with him. Its history, therefore, must Lord Chancellor Talbot's brother, to the Rev. "not be omitted by us; and if, in some respects, Francis Gastrell, Vicar of Frodsham in Chewe should ffer in it from the narrative of Ma-shire; by whom, on some quarrel with the ma lone, we shall not be without reasons sufficient gistrates on the subject of the parochial assess to justify the deviations in which we indulge.ments, it was razed to the ground, and its site New Place, then, which was not thus first na med by Shakspeare, was built in the reign of Henry VII., by Sir Hugh Clopton, Kt., the

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abandoned to vacancy. On this completion of his outrages against the memory of Shakspeare, which his unlucky possession of wealth enabled hia to commit, Francis Gastrell departed from * By intelligence, on the accuracy of which Stratford, hooted out of the town, and pursued I can rely, and which has only just reached me, by the execrations of its inhabitants. The fate from the birthplace of Shakspeare, I learn that of New Place has been rather remarkable. Afthe family of the Harts, after a course of lineal ter the demolition of the house by Gastrell, the descents during the revolution of two hundred ground, which it had occupied, was thrown and twenty-six years, is now on the verge of ex-into the contiguous garden, and was sold by the tinction; an aged woman, who retains in single widow of the clerical barbarian. Having re blessedness her maiden name of Hart, being at mained during a certai.. period, as a portion of this time (Nov. 1825) its sole surviving reprea garden, a house was again erected on it; and sentative. For some years she occupied the in consequence also of some dispute about the house of her ancestors, in which Shakspeare is parish assessments, that house, like its prede reporte i to have first seen the light; and here cessor, was pulled down; and its site was finalshe obtained a comfortable subsistence by show-ly abandoned to Nature, for the production of ing the antiquities of the venerated mansion to her fruits and flowers: and thither may we imathe numerous strangers who were attracted to give the little Elves and Fairies frequently to reit. Being dispossessed of this residence by the sort, to trace the footsteps of their beloved poet, rapaciousness of its proprietor, she settled her- now obliterated from the vision of man; to self in a dwelling nearly opposite to it. Here throw a finer perfume on the violet; to unfold she still lives; and continues to exhibit some re- the first rose of the year, and to tinge its cheek liques, not reputed to be genuine, of the mighty with a richer blush; and, in their dances bebard, with whom her maternal ancestor was neath the full-orbed moon, to chant their harnourished in the same womb. She regards her- monies, too subtle for the gross ear of mortaself also as a dramatic poet; and, in support of lity, to the fondly cherished memory of their her pretensions, she produces the rude sketch of darling, The Sweet Swan of Avon.

a play, uninformed, as it is said, with any of When I have cited, at the close of what I am the vitality of genins. For this information, I am now writing, the description by Jaques, in "As indebted to Mr. Charles Fellows, of Notting-you Like it," of the seven ages of man, as an ham; who, with the characteristie kindness of evidence of Shakspeare's power to touch the his most estimable family, sought for the intel- most familiar topics into poetry, as the Phry ligence which was required by me, and obtain- gian monarch could touch the basest substances edit. into gold, I shall conclude this Life of Shak

speare, by asking if he be not a mighty genius, | On the scath'd heath the fatal Sisters scowl: sufficiently illustrious and commanding to call Or, as hell's caldron bubbles o'er the flame, forth the choice spirits of a learned and intellec- Prepare to do a deed without a name. tual century to assert his greatness, and to march in his triumph to fame?

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Where, richly deck'd with laurels never sere,
It stands aloft, and baffles Time's career,
There warbles Poesy her sweetest song:
There the wild Passions wait, thy vassal throng.
There Love, there Hate, there Joy, in turn pre-
sides;

And rosy Laughter holding both his sides.
At thy command the varied tumult rolls:
Now Pity melts, now Terror chills our souls.
Now, as thou wavest thy wizard rod; are seen
The Fays and Elves quick glancing o'er the
green:

And, as the moon her perfect orb displays,
The little people sparkle in her rays.
There, 'mid the lightning's blaze, and whirl-
wind's howl,

These are thy wonders, Nature's darling birth And Fame exulting bears thy name o'er earth. There, where Rome's eagle never stoop'd for blood,

By hallow'd Ganges and Missouri's flood:
Where the bright eyelids of the Morn unclose;
And where Day's steeds in golden stalls repose;
Thy peaceful triumphs spread; and mock the
pride

Of Pella's Youth, and Julius slaughter-dyed.
In ages far remote, when Albion's state
Hath touch'd the mortal limit, mark'd by Fate:
When Arts and Science fly her naked shore:
And the world's Empress shall be great no more;
Then Australasia shall thy sway prolong;
And her rich cities echo with thy song.
There myriads still shall laugh, or drop the tear,
At Falstaff's humour, or the woes of Lear:
Man, wave-like, following man, thy powers
admire ;

And thou, iny Shakspeare, reign till time ex
pire.
C. S.

TO THE MEMORY

OF MY BELOVED

MR. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE,

AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame:
While I confess thy writings to be such,
As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise,
For silliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron. What could hurt her
more?

But thou art proof against them, and indeed
Above the' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age!
The applanse! delight! the wonder of our stage!
My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumount lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportion'd muses:
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
1 should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine,
Or sporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less
Greek,

From thence to honour thee, I will not seek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage: or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,

To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plantus, now not please:
But antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion. And that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muse's anvil; turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel, he must gain a scorn,
For a good poet's made, as well as born.
And such wert thou. Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue: even so the race

Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly

shines

In his well turned, and true filed lines:
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet swan of Avon f what a sight it were,
To see thee in our water yet appear,
And make those slights upon the banks of
Thames,

That so did take Eliza, and our James!
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath
mourn'd like night,

And despairs day, but for thy volumes' light.
BEN JONSON

ON WORTHY MASTER SHAKSPEARE,

AND HIS POEMS.

A mind reflecting ages past, whose clear
And equal surface can make things appear,
Distant a thousand years, and represent
T'hem in their lively colours, just extent :
To outrun hasty time, retrieve the fates,
Rowl back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates
Of death and Lethe, where confused lye
Great heaps of ruinous mortality:
In that deep dusky dungeon, to discern
A royal ghost from churls; by art to learn
The physiognomy of shades, and give
Them sudden birth, wond'ring how oft they
live;

What story coldly tells, what poets feign
At second hand, and picture without brain,
Senseless and soul-less shews: To give a stage,-
Ampie, and true with life,-voice, action, age.
As Plato's year, and new scene of the world,
Them unto us, or us to them had hurl'd:
To raise our ancient sovereigns from their herse,
Make kings his subjects; by exchanging verse
Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age
Joys in their joy and trembles at their rage:
Yet so to 'emper passion, that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears
Both weep and smile; fearful at plots so sad,
Then laughing at our fear; abused, and glad
To be abused; affected with that truth
Which we perceive is false, pleased in that ruth
At which we start, and, by elaborate play,
Tortured and tickled; by a crab-like way
Time past made pastime, and in ugly sort
Disgorging up his ravin for our sport:-

While the plebeian imp, from lofty throne,
Creates and rules a world, and works upon
Mankind by secret engines; now to move
A chilling pity, then a rigorous love;

To strike up and stroak down, both joy and ire; To steer the affections; and by heavenly fire Mold us anew, stoln from ourselves:

This, and much more, which cannot be exprest

But by himself, his tongue, and his own breast,Was Shakspeare's freehold; which his cunning

brain

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brave,

And constant blue, rich purple, guiltless white, The lowly russet, and the scarlet bright: Branch'd and embroider'd like the painted spring

Each leaf match'd with a flower, and each string

Of golden wire, each line of silk: there run
Italian works, whose thread the sisters spun
And there did sing, or seem to sing, the choice
Birds of a foreign note and various voice:
Here hangs a mossy rock; there plays a fair
But chiding fountain, purled not the air,
Nor clouds, nor thunder, but were living drawn;
Not out of common tiffany or lawn,
But fine materials, which the Muses know,
And only know the countries where they grow.

Now, when they could no longer him enjoy, In mortal garments pent,-Death may destroy, They say, his body; but his verse shall live, And more than nature takes our hands shall

give:

In a less value, but more strongly bound, Shakspeare shall breathe and speak; with laurel crown'd,

Which never fades; fed with ambrosian meat; In a well-lined vesture, rich and neat:

So with this robe they cloath him, bid him wear it;

For time shall never stain, nor envy tear it. The friendly Admirer of his Endowments, J. M. S.

THE PREFACE OF THE PLAYERS.

PREFIXED TO THE FIRST FOLIO EDITION PUBLISHED IN 1623.

TO THE GREAT VARIETY OF READERS.

From the most able, to him that can but spell: office of their care and paine, to have collected there you are number'd. We had rather you and publish'd them; and so to have publish'd were weigh'd Especially when the fate of all them, as where (before) you were abus'd with || Bookes depends upon your capacities: and not divers stolne, and surrepitious copies, maimed of your heads alone, but of your purses. Well!and deformed by the frauds and stealthes of it is now publique, and you will stand for your injurious impostors, that expos'd them: ever priviledges wee know: to read, and censure. those are now offer'd to your view cur'd, and Do so, but buy it first. That doth best commend perfect of their limbes; and all the rest, absolute a Booke, the Stationer saies. Then, how odde in their numbers, as he conceived them: Who, soever your braines be, or your wisedomes, as he was a happie imitator of Nature, was a make your licence the same, and spare not. most gentle expresser of it. His mind and hand Judge your sixe-pen'orth, your shillings worth, went together: and what he thought, he uttered your five shillings worth at a time, or higher, with easinesse, that wee have scarse received so you rise to the just rates, and welcome. But, from him a blot in his papers. But it is not our whatever, you do, Buy. Censure will not drive province, who onely gather his works, and give a Trade, or make the Jacke go. And though them you, to praise him. It is yours that reade you be a Magistrate of wit, and sit on the Stage him. And there we hope, to your divers er paat Black-Friers or the Cockpit, to arraigue cities, you will finde enough, both to draw, and Playes dailie, know, these Playes have had hold you for his wit can no more lie hid, then their triall alreadie, and stood out all Appeales; and do now come forth quitted rather by a Decree of Court, than any purchas'd Letters of commendation.

it could be lost. Read him, therefore; and againe, and againe: And if then you doe no' like him, surely you are in some manifest dan ger, not to understand him. And so we leave you to other of his Friends, whom if you need, can bee your guides: if you neede them not, you can leade yourselves, and others. And such

It had bene a thing, we confesse, worthie to nave bene wished, that the Author himselfe had lived to have set forth, and overseen his owne writings; But since it hath bin ordain'd other-readers we wish him. wise, and he by death departed from that right, we pray you, doe not envie his Friends thel

JOHN HEMINGE,
HENRY CONDELL.

ALL the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits, and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being SEVEN ÅGES.

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