English Lands, Letters and Kings, vol. 2: From Elizabeth to AnneMitchell, Donald Grant
History
English Lands, Letters and Kings, vol. 2: From Elizabeth to Anne
Mitchell, Donald Grant
English literature -- History and criticism; Great Britain -- Intellectual life
But we must not, and cannot reckon the Stratford poet as a paragon of all
the virtues; his long London absences, for cause or for want of cause--or
both--may have given many twinges of pain to his own mother (of Arden
blood), and to the mother of his children. Yet after the date of his boy’s
death, up to the time of his final return to Stratford there are evidences
of very frequent home visits, and of large interest in what concerned his
family and towns-people.
His journeyings to and fro, probably on horseback, may have taken him by
way of Edgehill, and into Banbury (of “Banbury-Cross” buns); or, more
likely, he would have followed the valley of the Stour by Shipston, and
thence up the hills to Chipping-Norton, and skirting Whichwood Forest,
which still darkens a twelve-mile stretch of land upon the right, and so
by Ditchley and the great Woodstock Park, into Oxford. I recall these
names and the succession of scenes the more distinctly, for the reason
that some forty years ago I went over the whole stretch of road from
Windsor to Stratford on foot, staying the nights at wayside inns, and
lunching at little, mossy hostelries, some of which the poet may possibly
have known, and looking out wonderingly and reverently for glimpses of
wood, or field, or flood, that may have caught the embalmment of his
verse. It was worth getting up betimes to verify such lines as these:--
“Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;”
or those others, telling how the gentle day
“Dapples the drowsy East with spots of gray.”
Again, there was delightful outlook for
“----a bank whereon the wild thyme blows
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows;”
or, perhaps it was the
“Summer’s green, all girded up in sheaves”
that caught the eye; or, yet again, the picturesque hedge-rows, which,
Like prisoners overgrown with hair
Put forth disordered twigs;
and these flanked by some
“----even mead, which erst brought sweetly forth
The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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