As I
contemplated the venerable old mansion, I called to mind Falstaff's
encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference and
real vanity of the latter:
"Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich.
Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir
John:- marry, good air."
Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in the
days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and solitude. The
great iron gateway that opened into the court-yard was locked; there
was no show of servants bustling about the place; the deer gazed
quietly at me as I passed, being no longer harried by the
moss-troopers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I
met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace
towards the stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not
omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw
suspended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still
inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous
exercise of territorial power which was so strenuously manifested in
the case of the bard.
After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way to a
lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the mansion.
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