John and Betty's History Visit Part 10

When Mrs. Pitt saw him, she smiled and said, "No doubt, Shakespeare himself, when he was a small boy, often sat right there with his brothers and sisters. It must have been very pleasant on cold winter evenings, to creep into these 'inglenooks,' as they were called, beside the great blazing fire, and tell stories. I think the children should have felt themselves very lucky to have such delightfully warm quarters!"

From a small entry at the rear of this room, the narrow winding stairs lead to the floor above. Before going up, Mrs. Pitt wrote their names in the huge Visitors' Book. Betty was much pleased to find, while carelessly turning its pages, the name of a girl friend who had been in England the previous summer.

"How queer that I should see Evelyn's name!" she exclaimed; "but I guess almost everybody who visits England comes to this house."

"Aye! We 'ave thousands of visitors 'ere every year, Miss, and the most of 'em are Americans, it do appear to me! They do be powerful fond o' Shakespeare!" The attendant shook his head knowingly as he gave Betty this information.

One of the most interesting rooms in the whole world is that chamber on the second floor in which the great Shakespeare was born. In itself, it is not in any way remarkable; it contains but a chair or two, and an old table, which holds a bust of the Poet. But its plaster walls, low ceiling, and even its window-panes, are inscribed with the names of great people,--poets, authors, statesmen, men of all countries, occupations, and beliefs,--who have journeyed here to pay their tribute to the greatest of all poets and writers.

"Whenever I meet people who believe that Lord Bacon or any other man wrote Shakespeare's plays, I never discuss the question with them, for I have no arguments to withstand their claims," said Mrs. Pitt intently. "I only remind myself that if such men as Browning, Thackeray, Kean, Scott, and Carlyle, who have all left their signatures here, believed that the 'immortal Shakespeare' wrote his own plays, I can feel safe in believing so, too. Therefore I want you to understand, children, that you are standing in the room where Shakespeare was born, and be glad all your lives when you remember that you have seen it."

The other room on the second floor--a kind of attic--contains an important picture of Shakespeare. It is called the "Stratford Portrait," as it was discovered in that native town, and it is now thought to have been painted in the eighteenth century, from a bust.

The Shakespeare house is double. In the other half, which is now a museum, John Shakespeare, the father of the Poet, used to have his shop and carry on his trade, or trades, for, like many people at that time, he had several. This museum now contains many relics of Shakespeare, which are more or less authentic, as well as a large number of First Editions of his plays. The young people were interested in an old desk, much scratched and marred, which it is supposed that the Poet used when at the Guild School. It is not clear whether it was when he was a pupil there, or at the time he was "Junior Master," as he is thought to have been by some. The desk is long and narrow, having but one little opening into which a hand could be reached to pull out the books. It occurred to John that it would have been a very convenient place to hide apples or pickles, or any such forbidden articles, as the master could never even suspect their existence in that dark interior.

"You will see where that desk once stood," remarked Mrs. Pitt, "for later, I shall show you the old Guild Hall, and the room where the Stratford boys had their lessons. Now, we are all hungry, and we'll go straight to the Shakespeare Hotel and have some luncheon. Don't you all approve that plan?"

Before leaving "the Birthplace," it must be remembered that there exists a really very picturesque old English garden. In it were planted, about fifty years ago, a quant.i.ty of the flowers which are mentioned in the plays of Shakespeare, and the result is a very lovely ma.s.s of brightly-colored, old-fas.h.i.+oned flowers.

At the Shakespeare Hotel, they were served a typically English luncheon of mutton, peas seasoned with mint, greens, and afterwards a "gooseberry tart." John and Betty were in gales of laughter when the shy, rosy-cheeked maid asked if they would have some "jammed fingers."

"What in the world does she mean?" inquired Betty, between her giggles.

"I don't know, I am sure. Do you, Barbara? Oh, yes I do! Probably she means 'jam fingers.' I have heard the name. Please bring us some,"

Mrs. Pitt requested.

The "jammed fingers" proved to be long strips of pastry with jam between. They were very good, and John and Betty much preferred them to the sour gooseberries, to which they had not taken at all kindly.

The Shakespeare Hotel is much like its neighbor, the Red Horse, except for the fact that each room bears the name of one of Shakespeare's plays.

"How lovely it would be to sleep in the 'Romeo and Juliet' room,--if there is one!" Betty sighed. "I almost wish we had planned to stay here, although I do want to write letters on the table in Was.h.i.+ngton Irving's room at the Red Horse!"

Very near the Shakespeare Hotel is what is known as the "John Harvard House,"[B]--more accurately, the girlhood home of the mother of John Harvard. It is high and narrow, but fully as picturesque as is the nearby Tudor House, which is large and square. Both are excellent examples of Elizabethan houses, and are very quaint and pretty. The lower floor of the Tudor House is a most fascinating shop, in which one may find a really astonis.h.i.+ng number of post-cards, books, pictures, and little souvenirs relating to Shakespeare.

[Footnote B: This has just recently been restored and presented to Harvard College. The old house will in the future serve as a rendezvous for visiting Americans.]

"Seems to me, everything, from the hotel to the cheapest post-card, has the name of Shakespeare attached to it somehow!"

"You are quite right, John!" agreed Mrs. Pitt. "The modern town has grown up and literally lives upon Shakespeare! Without him, and the immense number of visitors which his memory brings, Stratford could hardly exist at all, as there are no factories or important industries here."

A long, beautiful afternoon of sight-seeing followed. First, came a visit to the site of Shakespeare's home of New Place, to see the old foundations. As they stood looking down at the few pathetic remains, Mrs. Pitt explained how the house happened to be pulled down.

"It was shameful!" she cried indignantly. "I dislike to think of the man who was responsible for its destruction. The house was an old one, even in Shakespeare's day, as it was probably erected in 1490 by Sir Hugh Clopton. A historian named Leland of the sixteenth century says this about New Place and its surroundings: 'There is a right goodly chappell, in a fayre street towardes the south ende of the towne dedicated to the Trinitye; this chappell was newly re-edified by one Hugh Clopton, Mayor of London; this Hugh Clopton builded also by the north side of this chappell a praty house of brick and tymbre, wherein he lived in his latter dayes and dyed.' To appreciate that fully, you should see the queer old spelling! Well, to continue, Shakespeare left New Place to his eldest daughter, Susanna Hall, and I don't know just how long it remained in the family. However, at length it was in the possession of the Rev. Francis Gastrell, who cut down Shakespeare's celebrated mulberry-tree because too many visitors troubled him by coming there to see it. In 1759, he became so angry in a quarrel about the taxes imposed upon New Place, that he had it torn down and the material sold. I can never forgive him for that! It seems to me that I never knew of anger having led to a more outrageously unjust and deplorable act!" Mrs. Pitt's eyes flashed, and her face was flushed from her feeling of what one might almost be pardoned for terming "righteous indignation."

Leaving New Place, they turned into Chapel Lane, which borders on one side the grounds formerly belonging to the Poet's estate.

"Let me give you just a little description of this street in Shakespeare's time," Mrs. Pitt reflected. "You must know that sanitary conditions were fearful then, and that Stratford was as bad, if not worse, than other towns in that respect. Even as late as 1769, when Garrick visited here, he considered it 'the most dirty, unseemly, ill-paved, wretched-looking town in all Britain.' The people had absolutely no idea of cleanliness. In Stratford, there were six places where it was lawful to dump rubbish,--right in the street! Just fancy!

Sometimes these dumps prevented a man from making his way about the town. Chapel Lane was considered the worst part of the whole place, for besides the fact that there was a dump here, the neighbors in the vicinity seemed to be more than usually untidy and s.h.i.+ftless,--allowing their pigs to wander about loose, for instance.

That was the kind of street which Shakespeare must have entered every time he left his own house. Think of it! Some people have, I believe, attributed his early death to the unhealthful conditions of his surroundings. Inside the homes, things were but little better. People laid rushes on the floor in the place of carpets, and these became filthy from dirt, mud, and other things which clung to them. Fresh rushes were brought but seldom. The churches were not often swept or cleaned, either. Once, when the roof of the Guild Chapel was being repaired, a certain man and his wife were appointed to sweep the interior and clear away the cobwebs. A widow used to sweep the market-place. She was provided with her utensils,--a shovel, broom-stick, and bundle of twigs--and was paid six s.h.i.+llings and eightpence a year. How carefully and how often do you suppose she swept? Dear me! I sometimes have wished that I had lived in Queen Elizabeth's age, but when I remember some of the terrible circ.u.mstances of that time, I cannot be too thankful that I live in the twentieth century!"

They had been standing before the old Guild Hall for some few minutes while Mrs. Pitt finished what she was saying. They now turned to admire and examine it more closely. It is a building of plaster and huge timbers, long and low, with a second story projecting slightly over the lower. The old hall on the ground floor is said to be where the boy Shakespeare first saw a play. A room just above it was the Grammar School, which Shakespeare probably attended for five years, and where the desk shown at "the Birthplace" may have been used by him.

"It was rather different going to school in those days!" declared Mrs.

Pitt. "The hours were very long, the lessons hard, and the masters strict, and not unwilling to use the rod for the slightest misdemeanor. There have been terrible stories of boys being much hurt, or even killed as a result of this practice. The pupils sat on narrow benches, their heavy books propped up before them on long tables. It must have been very hard to stay here in this dark room and listen to the master's voice reciting monotonous Latin, while birds sang and the fair world of an English summer was just out of reach. If Shakespeare was a real boy,--and we think he was--he was surely describing his own feelings when he wrote the lines in 'As You Like It' about:

'The whining schoolboy, with his satchel, And s.h.i.+ning morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school,--'"

As they had already walked a good deal that day, Mrs. Pitt found a carriage, and they drove to Trinity Church and the Shakespeare Memorial. On the way, the driver pointed out the home of Marie Corelli, the writer. It is an attractive, square house, which presents a very gay appearance, with a box of bright flowers on every window-ledge.

Trinity Church stands close beside the picturesque Avon. The waters flow gently against the rushes, making a soft music, and the breeze just stirs the leaves of the tall trees which keep guard over the graves in the church-yard. One feels something of the peace and quiet of Stoke Poges, but here the presence,--or, rather, the memory--of the great Shakespeare hovers over all, and every one hastens inside to see the tomb.

The church is ancient--in part dating from the twelfth century--and it contains many interesting monuments, but somehow the whole seems like one huge memorial to Shakespeare. On the floor, at one side of the chancel, is the slab which marks the Poet's grave, and which bears the famous epitaph, said to have been written by himself:

"Good frend; for Jesus' sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare; Bleste be y{e} man y{e} spares thes stones, And curst be he y{t} moves my bones."

On the wall above the tomb is the monument,--a bust of Shakespeare, on which the original colors have recently been restored. Nearby are buried Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare's wife, his daughter, Susanna Hall, and her husband, and other members of the family.

For some minutes our party stood quietly looking over the altar-rail at the grave and its inscription, but finally, the arrival of some loud-voiced, laughing tourists, who conscientiously made fun of everything they saw, caused them to turn away.

Mrs. Pitt then called their attention to some of the stained-gla.s.s windows. "Two of them were given by Americans," she said. "This one here pictures the Seven Ages of Man, which Shakespeare describes in 'As You Like It,' Do you see? Now come to the back of the church and look at the parish register, which contains the record of the baptism and burial of Shakespeare. Here it is."

A gla.s.s case holds this precious relic, and by studying carefully the quaint old writing, the words "Shakespeare" and the dates can be traced.

"Think how fortunate that this register was preserved!" exclaimed Mrs.

Pitt, leaning over to examine it again. "Important records of births, marriages, and deaths, as well as notable events, were always kept in these books, and yet the people generally did not consider them of much value. The parchment leaves were often torn out and used to rebind schoolbooks, or to line a housewife's cooking-utensils! Fancy!

Some vergers, however, recognized the great worth of these books and preserved them with care. Luckily the men of this church were of that type."

Here the modern verger, in his flowing black gown, accosted them, and urged them to buy some of the Shakespeare Post-cards, at a s.h.i.+lling each. Having purchased several, and posted them then and there to various friends, they left the church and walked down the lovely path, shaded by arching lime-trees. They then drove to the Shakespeare Memorial, which also stands near the river.

This large, irregular building of red brick and stone, with its one high tower, was erected in 1879. In it is a theatre where plays are given every spring, on the anniversary of Shakespeare's birth, as well as at certain other times. The children were amused at seeing a rehearsal in progress on the stage.

"How absurd Lady Macbeth does look strutting about and clasping her hands, dressed in that black skirt, s.h.i.+rt-waist, and sailor hat!"

Betty laughed.

In this Memorial Building are many photographs and paintings of celebrated actors and actresses in Shakespearean roles, as well as a very fine library. There is so much to be seen here--so much detail--that our friends only took a very hasty look about, and then went up into the tower to see the view. Stretched out below them, the quaint little town of Stratford and the lovely green meadows through which the Avon flows, made a very effective picture!

It was now late afternoon, and the sun was getting lower and lower.

They did not feel like doing any more real sight-seeing, yet it was still too delightful out-of-doors to return to the hotel, so Mrs.

Pitt, who always had some fascinating plan ready, suggested that they walk through the Weir Brake.

"What's that, Mother? You never took us there!" exclaimed Barbara.

"Didn't I? Well, I'll show it to you, and I am sure you will like it, too," their mother promised. "Come on! We'll cross this little foot-bridge, and go along the opposite bank."

The view of Holy Trinity Church from across the river is very charming. The luxuriant foliage almost hides it except for the old gray spire, which rises most gracefully above the tree-tops. They strolled happily along over the rough field, Betty stopping sometimes to gather a few attractive blossoms to add to her bunch of wildflowers. The light was wonderfully soft and lovely, and the sun had gone down only to leave behind it a sky glorious in its tints of pink and lavender, with the deep blue still remaining above.

"Now, we're coming to the Weir Brake!" announced Mrs. Pitt triumphantly. "Take care, Barbara! Don't trip over that stump!"