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 quantity of the flowers which are
mentioned in the plays of Shakespeare, and the result is a very lovely
mass of brightly-colored, old-fashioned 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 Washington
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 astonishing 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
shiftless,--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 shillings 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
circumstances 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 shining 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-glass
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 glass 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 shilling
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, shirt-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!"
They followed their guide over a stile, across a field where the smell
of new-mown hay was sweet, through some bars, and finally along a
narrow, rough path on a steep bank close to the Avon. This was the
beginning of the Weir Brake, where Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway may
perhaps have done their courting, as Mrs. Pitt suggested.
The Avon is narrow at this point, and flows rather swiftly. The sunset
sky was reflected in its waters, which were overshadowed by willow
trees, rushes, and ferns. On the bank was a tangle of underbrush and
wild flowers, and above, the great trees,--the elms, of which
Shakespeare so often speaks. As they rambled on and on, the trees
seemed to grow larger, and more and more gnarled and picturesque.
"Oh! Can't you just see Titania and Oberon and all the other fairies
dancing here and playing games about these trees! It looks exactly
like a stage-setting for 'As You Like It' or 'Midsummer Night's
Dream,'" exclaimed Betty, who was fascinated with what she saw. The
evening was just dark enough to produce a weird but beautiful effect
of shadows under the elm trees.
"I'm rejoiced that it appeals to you so, Betty!" cried Mrs. Pitt.
"That's just as I always feel! It seems as though you could actually
touch spots of which Shakespeare must have been thinking when he wrote
certain passages. And it is a fact that he did often have this or
similar places in mind; for, although the scene of 'A Midsummer
Night's Dream' was supposed to be in Greece, Shakespeare allowed his
characters and his entire background to be as absolutely English as he
was himself. You know that in olden times, the Forest of Arden covered
much of Warwickshire; even these old trees with which we are now
surrounded, are remnants of that splendid woodland which is so
familiar to us through Shakespeare. It was surely in just such a scene
that Titania and the other fairies danced, and where Snug, Bottom,
Flute, Snout, and the rest came to practice their play,--those
so-called Athenians, who were so exactly like Stratford tradesmen of
Shakespeare's day. Certainly it was under just such trees that Hermia,
and Helena, Lysander, and Demetrius wandered!
"And see there where those branches touch the water," she soon
continued; "might not that have been the very place where poor Ophelia
lost her life? Listen!
'There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;'
Isn't that a perfect description of this very spot? And then:
'I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxslips and the nodding violet grows,--'
Just see the violets all about us here! There are the 'pale
cowslips,' too! Do you see? Oh, it's wonderful,--wonderful to find so
many of the very flowers which Shakespeare loved and talked of so
much!--the daisy, the musk-rose and woodbine! There's some right by
your foot, Betty. But come, come, we really must go now! We'll go back
by the field above, where it is not so steep and dark. Come, John!"
So they hurriedly retraced their steps toward the town. In skirting
the fields on the hill-top, they once had to pick their way with some
difficulty through holes in bristling hedges, and Mrs. Pitt and the
girls were forced to run away from a buck, but these were little
incidents to which they were all quite equal, and they arrived at the
Red Horse Hotel, nothing daunted, just as the dinner-gong sounded
loudly.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A DAY IN WARWICKSHIRE
Betty did spend the evening "writing letters in Washington Irving's
room at the Red Horse," as she had planned. It was in that quaint,
tiny parlor that Irving wrote his well-known paper about
Stratford-on-Avon, and perhaps Betty hoped to benefit by the literary
atmosphere. At any rate, the letters were accomplished with great ease
and rapidity, after her curiosity had been satisfied by an examination
of the room.
Washington Irving's armchair is there, and the old poker with which he
is said to have tended the fire. On the walls hang the pictures of a
number of actors and actresses who have played Shakespearean parts.
Except for these, the room differs very little from the rest of the
inn. About nine-thirty, the children started up to bed, Betty,
enthusiastic at the prospect of a high four-poster, which "you really
have to run and give a jump to get into." She and Barbara did not
stay long awake to enjoy it, however, for it seemed as though their
heads had hardly touched the pillows before the maid was calling them,
and the bright sun was pouring in at the windows.
Very early they set out to walk "across the fields to Anne." The
little village of Shottery, where stands the cottage known all the
world over as "Anne Hathaway's," is only about a mile distant from
Stratford, and our party gayly took the path through the
fields,--perhaps the very one over which Shakespeare trod when he was
Anne's lover. This led them first past the "back-yards" of Stratford,
then over a stile and through the green meadows, where daisies and
cowslips abound. As they went along, Mrs. Pitt repeated to them the
following little verse from Shakespeare's "Winter's Tale":
"Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a;
A merry heart goes all the way,
Your sad tires in a mile-a."
The boys learned this, and half-chanted, half-sang it over and over
while they all kept time to the rhythm.
"There's Shottery, I guess!" Betty called, interrupting the singers,
as she caught sight of a pretty little group of thatched-roofed
cottages. "It seems a very short 'mile-a,' doesn't it!"
Anne Hathaway's cottage is even more picturesque than its neighbors,
or does this only seem so because of the associations which it has for
all? Every one knows the picture of the cottage. One end stands close
to the country road, and in front of it, behind a green hedge, is the
garden. Growing on the cottage walls are at least half a dozen
different kinds of roses, as well as honeysuckle and jasmine, which
clamber way up and mingle with the heavy thatch. The old
casement-windows with their thick panes of glass were swung open to
let in the morning's fresh air. A young girl dressed in pink and
carrying a broom, appeared on the doorstep as Philip opened the gate.
She was evidently rather surprised to see such early visitors, but she
said they might go in. While Mrs. Pitt paused to speak with her,
Betty, who had already rushed inside, called out: "Here's the old
settle! I know it from its pictures!"
Sure enough, there it was, close beside the great fireplace,--we hope
just where it has always been ever since Anne Hathaway and
Shakespeare sat there together.
"But, Mother, is that really the same bench, and did Anne truly live
here?" questioned the all too matter-of-fact Barbara.
"My dear daughter," began Mrs. Pitt, feigning great severity; "banish
that thought immediately! Just for one little hour we are going to
know that Anne did live here,--that Will said 'Will you?' and Anne
said 'I will,' right on this very bench. I quite refuse to listen to
any doubts on the subject for to-day! You write our names in the book,
please, Philip. I'm going to rest myself here in Anne's
rocking-chair!"
The girl with the broom looked at her visitor in a puzzled way, and
began,--"But, lady, I brought that chair here with me only----" But
Mrs. Pitt quickly interrupted her, asking some trifling question. Her
illusions were not to be disturbed, it seemed, and the girl beat a
retreat.
"Well, Mother," said Philip, "you aren't the only one who has ever
believed in the house! Here in this old Visitors' Book are the names
of Dickens, Longfellow, Holmes, General Grant, Edwin Booth, Mary
Anderson, and----"
[Illustration: "DID ANNE TRULY LIVE HERE?"--_Page 164._]
"Never mind the rest, Phil; if General Grant said so, it's true! He
knew what he was talking about!" And so John settled the question.