upon entering the dining-room from the side entrance, I was heartened to see a kettle boiling furiously on the spirit lamp. We may have been over three thousand miles from London, but as long as the sun shone, our English traditions would remain. Mrs. Foster clearly ran a tight ship at her hotel.
When the good lady had brought me my cup, in order to make conversation, I asked her how the hotel had come by its name.
She paused and raised a hand to cover her mouth. A hint of sadness appeared in her eyes. After a pause, she lowered her hand and replied. “My husband Ralph decided upon the name. Like myself, he was born in Bermuda, but he always wanted to be an actor. There was no call for such a thing on this small isle, and he dreamed of one day moving to London and taking to the stage. But eventually, the fires of youth died down, as they always do, and he abandoned that thought in favor of something much more practical. Any yet, whenever given the chance, a glimmer of his first love would occasionally break forth, and so he named his hotel after the greatest theater in the world. By so doing, it was almost if every moment that he spent within these walls, he was actually far away in Southwark , walking its timbers. When he passed, I kept the name to honor his memory.”
“I am sorry to have raised a painful subject, madam.”
She smiled bravely, and dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. “There is no blame, Doctor. You could not have known. And it was a long time ago.”
“This hotel is hardly the only Bermudian connection with Shakespeare, of course!” a voice interjected, with the queer accent of one who hailed from one of our colonies in the Pacific. I had spent enough time in Australia as a lad to recognize this tone anywhere I encountered it.
I turned from Mrs. Foster to discover that the Herculean man had descended from the stairs and was entering the dining room. He smiled at me, and held out his hand. “Bruce Sims, at your service.”
After my reply, he continued. “I am sorry that I did not greet you sooner. It seems like I was occupied at every opportunity that we encountered each other.”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Sims. You were saying about Shakespeare…?” I prompted him.
“Ah yes,” he replied. “Well, as you may know, Shakespeare based his great play The Tempest upon the wreck of the Sea Venture in 1609, as detailed in William Strachey’s report. As such, this is the actual island of the sorcerer Prospero and the devil Caliban. In fact, there is a great cave over near Castle Harbor that is named after Prospero. Steps lead down to a deep saltwater lake that fills much of the cave, with magnificent stalactites hanging down overhead. In reality, it was likely discovered by Sir George Somers when he was first exploring the isles, but it pleases the imagination to think of the great sorcerer still dwelling there.”
I smiled at this fanciful tale from the leonine giant before me. “I have heard of the Sea Venture wreck before, but I also understand that Mr. Strachey’s report was not published until long after Shakespeare had died. I have read that it was the wreck of the Edward Bonaventure upon these reefs in 1593 that was the actual source for the story.”
Sims frowned. “I was unaware of those details, Doctor.” He then brightened. “But it does not diminish the Shakespeare connection to the isles.”
“I concur. Though I have heard Mr. Emerson doubts whether the merchant of Stratford could truly have written the plays ascribed to him.”
“What?!?” the man appeared truly astonished.
The rest of the evening was agreeably passed in a great debate with my new acquaintance Mr. Sims. He was a very interesting man. He knew hardly any books, and so was unfamiliar with the questionable attributes of the First Folio and its authorship, but he had travelled far and had seen much of the world, which he could describe in
When the good lady had brought me my cup, in order to make conversation, I asked her how the hotel had come by its name.
She paused and raised a hand to cover her mouth. A hint of sadness appeared in her eyes. After a pause, she lowered her hand and replied. “My husband Ralph decided upon the name. Like myself, he was born in Bermuda, but he always wanted to be an actor. There was no call for such a thing on this small isle, and he dreamed of one day moving to London and taking to the stage. But eventually, the fires of youth died down, as they always do, and he abandoned that thought in favor of something much more practical. Any yet, whenever given the chance, a glimmer of his first love would occasionally break forth, and so he named his hotel after the greatest theater in the world. By so doing, it was almost if every moment that he spent within these walls, he was actually far away in Southwark , walking its timbers. When he passed, I kept the name to honor his memory.”
“I am sorry to have raised a painful subject, madam.”
She smiled bravely, and dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. “There is no blame, Doctor. You could not have known. And it was a long time ago.”
“This hotel is hardly the only Bermudian connection with Shakespeare, of course!” a voice interjected, with the queer accent of one who hailed from one of our colonies in the Pacific. I had spent enough time in Australia as a lad to recognize this tone anywhere I encountered it.
I turned from Mrs. Foster to discover that the Herculean man had descended from the stairs and was entering the dining room. He smiled at me, and held out his hand. “Bruce Sims, at your service.”
After my reply, he continued. “I am sorry that I did not greet you sooner. It seems like I was occupied at every opportunity that we encountered each other.”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Sims. You were saying about Shakespeare…?” I prompted him.
“Ah yes,” he replied. “Well, as you may know, Shakespeare based his great play The Tempest upon the wreck of the Sea Venture in 1609, as detailed in William Strachey’s report. As such, this is the actual island of the sorcerer Prospero and the devil Caliban. In fact, there is a great cave over near Castle Harbor that is named after Prospero. Steps lead down to a deep saltwater lake that fills much of the cave, with magnificent stalactites hanging down overhead. In reality, it was likely discovered by Sir George Somers when he was first exploring the isles, but it pleases the imagination to think of the great sorcerer still dwelling there.”
I smiled at this fanciful tale from the leonine giant before me. “I have heard of the Sea Venture wreck before, but I also understand that Mr. Strachey’s report was not published until long after Shakespeare had died. I have read that it was the wreck of the Edward Bonaventure upon these reefs in 1593 that was the actual source for the story.”
Sims frowned. “I was unaware of those details, Doctor.” He then brightened. “But it does not diminish the Shakespeare connection to the isles.”
“I concur. Though I have heard Mr. Emerson doubts whether the merchant of Stratford could truly have written the plays ascribed to him.”
“What?!?” the man appeared truly astonished.
The rest of the evening was agreeably passed in a great debate with my new acquaintance Mr. Sims. He was a very interesting man. He knew hardly any books, and so was unfamiliar with the questionable attributes of the First Folio and its authorship, but he had travelled far and had seen much of the world, which he could describe in
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