S. C. Hall

Charlecote—famous in association with the early history of William Shakspere—has undergone little change since he who was “for all time” wandered along the thick-hedged lanes. So primitive is the “ancient neighbourhood,” that Fancy may, almost unbidden, call up the old glories of the place,—may hear the voice of Sir Thomas Lucy chiding his keepers for the loss of his fallow-deer, and the half-suppressed “chuckle” of an unnoticed bystander who, thereafter, was to fill the world with his fame. The Mansion seems quite unaltered; the village church precisely as it was at “the Reformation;” the humbler dwellings, of red brick, are only a little older the park palings merely made picturesque by overgrowing lichen; and the Park, as well as the “sweet Avon,” exactly as they were two centuries and a half ago; the one

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“flowing gently;” the other supplying, as of yore, many—

“An oak, whose boughs are moss’d with age,
And high top bald with dry antiquity;”

while the same deer—“dappled fools”—only look more conscious than they did, of assured safety in

“their assigned and native dwelling place.”

Art and Nature seem both to have stopped short of all “improvement;” there has been no need of the one to disturb the renown which the locality receives from the other; even the “stocks” that stand under a group of “Patrician trees” at Hampton Lucy, are suffered to die of natural decay; and it is as certain that the “bonny sweet Robin,” whose song we heard from the hawthorn in the churchyard is the progeny of him who sung there when Elizabeth was queen, as that the lord of the mansion is the descendant of that very Sir Thomas Lucy who sat in judgment upon the youth who

“obscur’d his contemplation
Under the veil of wildness.”

This unity of character has been most carefully preserved in the new buildings erected on the estate, of which the annexed wood-cut will afford evidence.

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It is difficult to descend to simple facts while describing a neighbourhood so suggestive of thought—so redolent of fancy. The Lucys, who occupy to-day the manor in which they lived three hundred years ago—“good old English gentlemen” of the present, as of the olden time—have inherited, without break, from father to son; adding little to their hereditary property, and losing no part of it by carelessness, profusion, or vice; generally, they seem to have been peaceable and liberal manorial lords, studious to make their tenantry prosperous and their dependants comfortable; dwelling apart from the bustle of action, and the stir of contentious life, even rumours of “oppression and deceit” seem rarely to have reached them; “exempt from public haunt,” they passed their days happily and slept together—a long line of kindly, if not great, men—under the roof tree of the little church where monuments loftier than their own ambitions have been raised to perpetuate their names.[59]

The history of Charlecote and its Lords, is given with great minuteness by Dugdale. Charlecote, Cherlecote, or Cerlecote, as it is written in Domesday Book, was, previous to the Conquest, in the possession of one Saxi, but afterwards became the property of the Earl of Mellent, and doubtless came from him to Henry de Newburgh, Earl of Warwick,

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From a drawing by F.W. Hulme. Day & Son, Lith??. to The Queen.

CHARLECOTE GREAT HALL.

whose son, Roger, (23rd Henry I.), gave half a hide of land lying in Cherlecote, with the tithes of the whole lordship, and “two mills” to his newly founded Collegiate Church of Warwick. He also enfeoffed Thurlestane de Montfort of large possessions in this county, whose son, Henry, with Alice de Harecourt, the widow of Robert de Montfort, his elder brother, gave all the village of Cherlecote to Walter the son of Thurlestane de Cherlecote, which grant was confirmed to him and his heirs by letters patent from Richard the First, with divers immunities and privileges thereto: all of which were ratified by King John, in the fifth year of his reign. From this Walter de Cherlecote (who was a knight), by Cecily, his wife, descended William, who assumed the name of Lucy, she perhaps being heir to some branch of that family.

Our space may be better occupied than in carrying their history from this remote age to the present day.

The Mansion was erected in 1558, by Thomas Lucy, who, in 1593, was knighted by

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Queen Elizabeth. It stands at a short distance from, and at some little elevation above, the river Avon. The building occupies three sides of a quadrangle, the fourth being formed by a handsome central Gatehouse, which, with its octangular turrets and oriel window, constitutes an interesting portion of the faÇade, and as seen in the accompanying view, backed out by the Mansion and connected by the terrace wings, presents a very pleasing and picturesque appearance. The House retains its gables and angular towers, but has suffered from the introduction of the large and heavy sash-windows of the time of William III., or George I. The entrance porch runs the whole height of the building, and is ornamented by pilasters and a pierced parapet, having over the arched entrance the family arms and the crest at each angle. From this porch or loggia, you enter the Hall, of which Washington Irving in the “Sketch-book” gives a graphic description as it existed at the period of his visit. The present apartment, however, forms a portion of the extensive alterations and additions carried into effect by the refined taste of the late Mr. Lucy. The “Gallery” and “Organ” are gone, but the large and lofty proportions of the room, as also the huge Bay Window, are preserved. The interior—of which we have given an engraving—will convey an accurate idea of this fine Hall. In the centre, on a highly polished marble floor, stands a most elaborate and splendid table, purchased at the price of 1500 guineas from the late Mr. Beckford’s collection at Fonthill, composed of lapis lazuli, jasper, &c., intermixed with the rarest marble: it is a worthy rival to that at Warwick Castle. The room contains many family portraits—the most interesting of the collection being one which represents Sir Thomas, his lady, and his children, painted by Cornelius Jansen.[60]

The Fire-place is modern, but of Elizabethan design, and finely carved. Above are busts of Sir Thomas Lucy the elder, and his son, and in the centre is one of Queen Elizabeth. The chairs, tables, &c., are all handsome, and strictly according in style with the Hall, which is connected by folding-doors with a fine oak staircase. The new apartments consist of a dining-room and drawing-room, serving also as a library.

From the House we cross the quadrangle. This is laid out as an ornamental flower-garden, with very charming effect. From thence the Park is entered, which is agreeably diversified by hill and dale, wood and water. The Avon winds its way irregularly through the plain, while ever and anon the “careless herd” come sweeping by, calling up involuntarily to the mind remembrances of the “melancholy Jaques” and his sad musings, as, in “the forest of Arden,”

“he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along the wood.”

Under a close avenue of trees a private walk leads to a corner of the Park, where, snugly embosomed among “scented limes” stands the little Church of Charlecote—with

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its belfry, simple as a dovecote, and its somewhat grotesque exterior.

There are three monuments—each being of an elaborate and costly character, with no inconsiderable pretensions to merit as works of art. The one nearest the altar is that of the Sir Thomas Lucy who is reported to have “threatened” Shakspere with punishment for deer-stealing, and is said to have been the object of a lampoon penned by the “immortal bard.”[61] The grave underneath contains also the ashes of his lady. They are represented in the usual recumbent posture, on a tomb of variegated marble, their hands uplifted in prayer. He is clad in armour, the lady in the ruff and dress of the period. Two smaller figures are kneeling below, and a tablet of black marble in the recess above their tomb has the following touching and beautiful inscription:—

“Here entombed lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy, wife of Sir Thomas Lucy, of Cherlecote, in the County of Warwick, Knight, daughter and heir of Thomas Acton, of Sutton, in the County of Worcester, Esquire, who departed out of this wretched world to her heavenly kingdome, the tenth day of February in the year of our Lord God 1595, and of her age lx and three. All the time of her life a true and faithfull servant of her good God, never detected of any crime or vice; in religion most sound; in love to her husband most faithfull and true; in friendship most constant; to what in trust was committed to her most secret; in wisdome excelling; in governing of her house and bringing up of youth in the feare of God that did converse with her, most rare and singular. A great maintainer of hospitality; greatly esteemed of her betters; misliked of none unless of the envious. When all is spoken that can be said, a woman so furnished and garnished with virtue as not to be bettered, and hardly to be equalled by any. As she lived most virtuously, so she dyed most godly. Set down by him that best did know what hath been written to be true.

“THOMAS LUCY.”

Except the effigy, there is no tribute of any kind to the memory of Sir Thomas himself. On the opposite side of the chancel, in a small vestry, or chapel, stands the tomb of his son Thomas, erected by Dame Constance, his lady, daughter and heiress to Richard Kingsmill; but having no inscription. It is one of the painted monuments of the period, and represents him armed, and in the usual recumbent attitude. On a pedestal in front, is a smaller-sized kneeling effigy of his lady, and in two panels, one on either side, are the figures of eight daughters and six sons in low relief. In the chancel, also, is another monument carved very elaborately; where, under marble pillars and arches, are the figures of his son Thomas and Alicia his wife, daughter and heiress of Thomas Spenser, Esq., of Claverdon. The figures are gracefully disposed, and most beautifully executed; all the details being highly finished. Behind, on one panel, is a bas-relief of a figure on horseback, and in a corresponding niche are sculptured shelves, on which are placed the works of various authors, the central niche being occupied by a very long Latin inscription, recording his virtues and death, which happened the 8th December 1640. A further inscription states that the monument was erected by his lady.

In the church there are a circular plain font, apparently of very early date; two small brasses of the 16th century, on the floor of the nave, and two bells in the wooden turret, one bearing the date of 1625. Beyond these it contains nothing worthy of notice.

Yet, as long as one stone shall stand upon another, will the little plain Church of Charlecote be linked with a glorious memory of the past; the lofty trees that grow around it conceal it effectually from sight; not so the Hall, which, standing on a gentle elevation above the Avon, is seen from all points of the adjacent scenery. It adjoins the pretty village of Wellsbourne; near to which, on the road between Warwick and Stratford, commences a double avenue of finely-grown elm-trees, which reaches, for more than half a mile from the public road, to the house;—from Warwick it is distant six miles, and from Stratford five. The Avon winds immediately around the mansion,

through the Park; close to the entrance-gate it is crossed by a pretty bridge, which heightens the striking effect of the landscape.

The whole neighbourhood, indeed, between Wellsbourne and Stratford, is full of beauty; the land seems passing rich; while, here and there, distant glances are caught of the Avon, or it accompanies the wayfarer along the road; there are few more delightful walks in England—and none so pregnant with “happy and glorious” associations. Amid these dells and by these hill-sides, was Shakspere taught of Nature.

“Here, as with honey gathered from the rock,
She fed the little prattler, and with songs
Oft sooth’d his wondering ears; with deep delight
On her soft lap he sat and caught the sounds.”

Every step to the pilgrim seems “hallowed ground;” he crosses the bridge, built by Sir Hugh Clopton during the reign of the 7th Harry, and is at once “at home” with Shakspere, who must have trodden upon these stones daily when a boy, and passed them often during his occasional visits to his birth-place, or when—“good easy man”—he retired hither from busy life, to die like the deer where he was roused. The very mystery in which his whole career seems inextricably involved, gives the fancy greater freedom: there is no check upon imagination as we tread the streets of the Avon’s old town of Stratford, muse in the small chamber where he was born, think in the school-house where he was taught, or ponder in the church where his bones have lain for two centuries and a half, “unmoved.”

Yet the often-quoted passage from Steevens is almost as correct to-day as it was when he wrote it—notwithstanding every “hole and corner” in England has been ransacked in the hope to find something that concerns him—“all that is known with any degree of certainty concerning Shakspere is—that he was born at Stratford-upon-Avon—married, and had children there—went to London, where he commenced actor, and wrote poems and plays—returned to Stratford, made his will, died, and was buried.”

Of all the poet wrote, during a long and busy life, no scrap remains to our time; and of his autographs but five are known to exist, three of which are affixed to his will in the Prerogative Office, Doctors’ Commons. One of the latter is written in one corner of the three sheets of paper which form that document, and is much injured in consequence, the christian name only being in any degree perfect; the other two are rather cramped in style, and one is much confused in the last letters, as if an error had been made in the spelling. The finest and clearest autograph is that upon the fly-leaf of the Montaigne of Florio, in the British Museum, which has been known but a few years, and was secured to the National Library at the cost of one hundred pounds. The fifth is in the Library of the City of London at Guildhall, affixed to a deed of bargain and sale of a dwelling-house, in the precinct of Blackfriars, to one Henry Walker, dated 11th March 1613; it is written on the slip of parchment inserted to hold the seal, and is therefore cramped; it, however, cost the Corporation of London forty-five pounds more than was paid for that now in the British Museum. There was a sixth known to be in existence to the counterpart of this deed, of which a fac-simile was published by Malone, and which came into the possession of Garrick, at whose death it could not be found.

The small chamber of the humble house in which he was born is still preserved, comparatively unimpaired. It stands in Henley-street, and is kept as “a show house,” by an aged woman who lives in the back apartments. It was some years ago a butcher’s shop, and in possession of Mrs. Hart, a lineal descendant of Shakspere by his sister’s side, who, upon leaving the house, whitewashed the room to obliterate the names which were pencilled over the walls by the many visitors. As this was done “at the last pinch” in the evening before quitting, no size was mixed with the wash, and the next occupant, with great patience, re-washed the walls, took off the coat of white, and the pencilled names became again visible; among them are those of Byron, Scott, the Countess Guccioli, Washington Irving, and a host of others; the effect of the pencilling upon the walls and ceiling, which is very low, is singularly curious: it looks as if they were covered with fine spider-web, so very close is the writing of the various names.

Of Shakspere’s house, “New Place,” where he retired after the turmoil of London life, in the gardens of which he planted the famous mulberry-tree, and from whence he was borne to his last home in the venerable church, was totally destroyed in 1757 by a certain “Rev. Mr. Gastrell,” whose want of reverence to all the world holds dear, will ever deprive his name of any other share of it than the prefix it bears. The whole history of the transaction is disgraceful in the highest degree—the more so as the man was in holy orders. The house was sold to him in 1751, on the death of Sir Hugh Clopton, who had resided in it. Five years afterwards, Gastrell became tired of showing the mulberry-tree, which Sir Hugh delighted in possessing, and by way of saving himself any further trouble, as well as to vex the Stratford people, with whom he was not on good terms, he cut it down, and sold it for firewood. In the year following he rased the house to the ground for the most discreditable of reasons—a refusal to pay poor’s rates.

But the church—the church in which, in 1564, he was baptised, and where in 1616, just 52 years afterwards, he was buried—still exists, not only uninjured but skilfully and judiciously renovated. Here the great object of attraction is the famous bust, “by Gerard Johnson.” It was executed, doubtless, by a literal copyist, who, if he had not the high talent of a great sculptor who endows his work with traces of the mind, will, at least, faithfully preserve all peculiarities of form and feature. The head as here given, if not lit up with the soul of the great Poet, is not unworthy of his calmer moments; the forehead is ample, and the brain large, well-developed, and altogether characteristic of that evenness of temper which, combined with unequalled genius, gave him the title of “the gentle Shakspere.” The great breadth of the upper lip, which might be objected to as unnatural, finds its fellow in that of another genius, the Shakspere of the North—Walter Scott.

The “bones” moulder underneath the chancel; and the memorable inscription remains uninjured upon the slab,—

Although the history of Shakspere is not necessarily connected with our subject—a visit to Charlecote, the seat of the Lucys—it was impossible to consider the neighbourhood apart from the great genius who has made it famous for all time.