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Baboo Jabberjee, B.A.

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<h2 class="roman">XVI</h2> Mr Jabberjee makes a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Shakespeare. I have frequently spoken in the flattering terms of a eulogium concerning my extreme partiality for the writings of Hon'ble William Shakspeare. It has been remarked, with some correctness, that he did not exist for an age, but all the time; and though it is the open question whether he did not derive all his ideas from previous writers, and even whether he wrote so much as a single line of the plays which are attributed to his inspired nib, he is one of the institutions of the country, and it is the correct thing for every orthodox British subject to admire and understand him even when most incomprehensible. Consequently I did cock-a-hoop for joy on receiving an invitation from my friend Allbutt-Innett, Jun., Esq., on behalf of his parents, that I should accompany them on an excursion by rail to Stratford-upon-Avon, where the said poet had his domicile of origin. And so great was my enthusiasm that, during the journey, I declaimed, ore rotundo, certain select passages from his works which I had committed to memory during the salad days of my schoolboyishness, and with such effect that Miss Wee-Wee Allbutt-Innett (who is excessively emotional) was compelled, at times, to veil her countenance in the recesses of a pocket-handkerchief. Having at length arrived at that hallowed and sacred spot, the very name of which sends a sweet and responsive thrill through every educated bosom, our first proceeding was to partake of a copious cold tiffin. This repast we ordered at an old-fashioned hostelry, whose doorway was decorated by a counterfeit presentment of the Bard, and I observed that similar effigies were placed above several of the shops as I walked along the streets. These images somewhat resemble those erected to Buddha in certain parts of India, being similarly bald, but terminating—not in crossed legs, but a cushion with tassels. However, I was not able to discover that it is the custom for even the most ignorant inhabitants to do anything in the nature of poojah before these figures any longer, though probably usual enough before Cromwell, with the iron sides, ordered all such baubles to be removed. In a hole of the upper wall of the Town Hall there is a life-size statuary of Shakspeare, with legs complete, showing that he was not actually deficient in such extremities and a mere gifted Torso: and it is presumable that the reason why only his upper portions are generally represented is, that marble in these parts is too precious a commodity to be wasted on mere superfluities. We visited the church, and saw his tomb, and there again was the superior half of him occupied with writing verses on a cushion in a mural niche, supported by pillars. Upon a slab below is inscribed a verse requesting that his dust should not be digged, and cursing him who should interfere with his bones, but in so mediocre a style, and of such indifferent orthography, that it is considered by some to be a sort of spurious cryptogram composed by Hon'ble Bacon. On such a vexata quæstio I am not to give a decided opinion, though the verse, as a literary composition, is hardly up to the level of Hamlet, and it would perhaps have been preferable if the poet, instead of attempting an impromptu, had looked out some suitable quotation from his earlier works. For, when an author is occupied in shuffling off his mortal coil, it is unreasonable to expect him to produce poetry that is up to the mark. When I advanced this excuse aloud in the church, a party of Americans within hearing exclaimed, indignantly, that such irreverent levity was a scandal in a spot which was the Mecca of the entire civilised universe. Whereupon I did protest earnestly that I meant no irreverence, being nulli secundus in respect for the Genius Loci, only, as a critic of English Literature, I could not help regretting that a poet gifted with every requisite for producing a satisfactory epitaph had produced a doggerel which was undeniably below his usual par. This rendered them of an increased ferocity, until Mr Allbutt-Innett good naturedly took them into a corner and whispered that I was a very wealthy young Indian Prince, of great scholastic attainments, but oppressed by an uncontrollable naïveté, after which they all came and shook me by the hand, saying they were very proud to have met me. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/p129.jpg" width-obs="438" height-obs="700" alt="'It was here,' I said, reverently, 'that the swan of Avon was hatched!'"> "IT WAS HERE," I SAID, REVERENTLY, "THAT THE SWAN OF AVON WAS HATCHED!" </div> Afterwards we proceeded to the Birthplace, where a very gentlewomanly female exhibited the apartment in which the Infant Bard first saw the light. Alack! there was but little light to behold, being a shockingly low and dingy room, meagrely furnished with two chairs and a table, on which was another of the busts. As I came in, I uttered a remark which I had prepared for the occasion. "It was here," I said, reverently, "here that the Swan of Avon was hatched!" At which Miss Wee-Wee was again overcome by emotion. The room was greatly in the necessity of whitewash, being black with smoke and signatures in lead pencil. Even the window-panes were scratched all over by diamonds, on seeing which, and being also the possessor of a diamond and gold ring, I was about to inscribe my own name, but was prevented by the lady custodian. I indignantly and eloquently protested that if Hon'ble Sirs, Walter Scott, Lord Byron, Isaac Walton, Washington Irving and Co. were permitted to deface the glass thus, surely I, who was a graduate of Calcutta University, and a valuable contributor to London Punch, was equally entitled, since what was sauce for a goose was sauce for a gander, and Mrs Allbutt-Innett urged that I was a distinguished Shakspearian student and Indian prince, but the custodian responded that she couldn't help that, for it was ultra vires, nevertheless. However, while she was engaged in pointing out the spot where somebody's signature had been before it was peeled away, I, snatching the opportunity behind her back, did triumphantly inscribe my autograph on the bust's nose. In the back-room they showed us where Shakspeare's father stapled his wool, which caused Mrs Allbutt-Innett to remark that she had always understood that the poet was of quite humble origin, and that, for her part, she thought it was all the more creditable to him to have done what he did do. We also inspected the Museum, and were shown Shakspeare's jug, a rather ordinary concern; the identical dial which one of the clowns in his plays drew out of a poke, and a ring with W. S. engraved on it, found in the churchyard some years ago, and, no doubt, dropped there by the poet himself, while absorbed in the composition of his famous and world-renowned elegy. There were several portraits of him also, all utterly unlike one another, or only agreeing in one respect, namely, their total dissimilarity from the bust. We likewise saw the very desk Shakspeare used, after creeping unwillingly to school with a shining face like a snail's. I was pained to see evidence of the mischievousness of the juvenile genius, for it was slashed and hacked to such a doleful degree as to be totally incapacitated for scholastic use! I myself was sprightly in my youth, but never, I am proud to say, to the extent of wilfully damaging my master's furniture! Before leaving, we walked to visit the residence of Shakspeare's wife, which turned out to be a very humble thatched-roof affair, such as is commonly occupied by peasants. But, as Mrs Allbutt-Innett said, it is a sad fact that distinguished literary characters often make most imprudent marriages. Which put me in a wonderment whether she had heard anything about myself and Miss Mankletow. At one of the bazaars I purchased a beautiful Shakspearian souvenir, in the form of a coloured porcelain model of Shakspeare's birthplace, which can be rendered transparent and luminous by the insertion of a night-light. This I had intended humbly to offer for the gracious acceptance of Miss Wee-Wee, but having thrust it into a coat-tail pocket, I unfortunately sat upon it in the train as we were returning. So I presented it as a token of remembrance to Jessimina, who was transported with delight at the gift, which she said could be easily rendered the statu quo by dint of a little diamond cement. <hr style="width: 65%;"> [Pg 135] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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