I seem, too, to have a kind of perception of Shakspeare’s father; a quiet, God-fearing, thoughtful man, given to the reading of good books, avoiding quarrels with a most Christian-like fear, and with but small talent, either in the way of speech making or money getting; a man who wore his coat with an easy slouch, and who seldom knew where his money went to.

All these things I seemed to perceive as if a sort of vision had radiated from the old walls; there seemed to be the rustling of garments and the sound of voices in the deserted rooms; the pattering of feet on the worm-eaten staircase; the light of still, shady summer afternoons, a hundred years ago, seemed to fall through the casements and lie upon the floor.  There was an interest to every thing about the house, even to the quaint iron fastenings about the windows; because those might have arrested that child’s attention, and been dwelt on in some dreamy hour of infant thought.  The fires that once burned in those old chimneys, the fleeting sparks, the curling smoke, and glowing coals, all may have inspired their fancies.  There is a strong tinge of household coloring in many parts of Shakspeare, imagery that could only have come from such habits of quiet, household contemplation.  See, for example, this description of the stillness of the house, after all are gone to bed at night:—­

  “Now sleep yslaked hath the rout;
  No din but snores, the house about,
  Made louder by the o’er-fed breast
  Of this most pompous marriage feast. 
  The cat, with, eyne of burning coal,
  Now crouches ’fore the mouse’s hole;
  And, crickets sing at th’ oven’s mouth,
  As the blither for their drouth.”

Also this description of the midnight capers of the fairies about the house, from Midsummer Night’s Dream:—­

PUCK.  “Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with, weary task fordone. 
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,
Puts the wretch, that lies in woe,
In remembrance of a shroud. 
Now it is the time of night,
That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the churchway paths to glide: 

And we fairies that do run
By the triple Hecate’s team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic; not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallowed house: 
I am sent with, broom, before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.

OBE.  Through this house give glimmering light,
By the dead and drowsy fire: 
Every elf, and fairy sprite,
Hop as light as bird, from brier;
And this ditty after me
Sing, and dance it trippingly.”

By the by, one cannot but be struck with the resemblance, in the spirit and coloring of these lines, to those very similar ones in the Penseroso of Milton:—­

“Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman’s drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm;
While glowing embers, through the room,
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.”