Stratford-on-Avon

STRATFORD-ON-AVON, BY ELDER C. G. BERRY, ENGLISH MISSIONARY. In the latter part of January last, a visit to Birmingham was privileged me, and during my stay of ten days an excellent opportunity presented itself to visit Stratf ord-on-Avon, of which, in company with President Hindley of the London conference, I took advantage. Stratford is a quiet and retiring country district of Warwickshire, a distance of some thirty odd miles from Birmingham, but just far enough to separate it nicely from the noise and bustle of the murmuring multitude in the large cities, yet not too far to inconvenience its people from independently making a journey to the city whenever occasion may demand. We departed from Birmingham on an early train, and were not many minutes in leaving the smoky atmosphere, which hung like a cloud immediately over the city, at our backs. Fortunately nature had favored us with a delightfully clear day, the air being mild and tranquil, and as we hurried through the green meadows, farms, fields, etc., separated into individual sections by thick, neatly-trimmed hedges, or an occasional moss-covered, rustic fence, we saw the farmer plowing the soil, each furrow a quarter of a mile long and straight as an arrow, making ready for the approaching spring's sowing. I may add that it is the pride and ambition of the English plowman to plow a furrow, no matter how long, without introducing the slightest curve. On one occasion we observed four handsome shire horses, the first or rear of which was attached to the plough, the second, third, and fourth alternately ahead, each proudly pursuing the furrow previously thrown up, and the soil so light that the task was no greater

688 IMPROVEMENT ERA. apparently than any one of the animals might have accomplished. Our ride for a part of the way, was in view of the beautiful blue river Avon which coursed its way through the wide, fertile valley, while the soft intervening landscape lies practically interchained within its silver links — at times sparkling among clusters of willows, which occasionally bathe their drooping heads into its clear bosom, and then hiding itself entirely beneath its mossy banks, or among groves of lofty elms vastly populated with feathered songsters. Indeed, nature seemed to have especially provided a superior, mixed chorus for this occasion. The Misses Goldfinch and the Thrush family furnished the sopranos and altos; a flock of handsome black birds, comprised the tenors, while the cuckoo formed the bassos. They sang their own peculiar compositions, in a style most befitting to their environments, and every now and again, gushes of warbling melodies burst forth with an intensity fit to split their little throats, while the air fairly rang with bird harmony. Of course, English scenery, at this season, was not costumed in its rich emerald green that would bedeck it two months later, as the trees were yet naked and leafless, although the grass carpeted the rolling hills. Meadows, etc., always green and picturesque, accompanied by the sudden change of the temperature, refreshened the air and idealized the whole landscape. However, after the lapse of a little time, we found ourselves in the village of the immortal Shakespeare, and, naturally, the first visit of interest was the little structure whose thatched roof sheltered the bard when he was first permitted to behold the light of a world of unrivaled fame which awaited him. It is a small, stable-like little edifice, and would likely hold a rather uninviting aspect for the general passer-by, only from the fact that it is in very truth a "resting place of genius." Strange that genius of such endowments "delight in hatching its off-spring" in some by-corner or some secluded hut — such it was in the case of Shakespeare. Upon entering the first room, our notice is attracted to an ingle-nook, just room enough for two, one on either side of the spit upon which the hams were smoked for family use. There we actually seated ourselves in the same favorite arm-chair that often gave comfort to the youthful poet, as we can imagine him, as

STRA TFORD- ON- A VON 689 he sits drinking in every word "with a greedy ear," and listening to the diverse opinions of neighbors who may, perchance, assemble for the purpose of discussing the affairs of the town, and the nation, which at that time afforded the most popular means of obtaining news, for they had not the perfectness of the printing press by which the daily proceedings might be circulated, nor yet the convenience of the telegraph. No doubt, the foundation was then laid of his natural tendency to a broad-minded view of life. From this we pass into an adjoining room known as the "birth room," or "museum," where many interesting relics are stored, too numerous to count, that were personally connected with the poet. If memory serves me well, there are three rooms, and one attic, in all, the floors of which are composed of large, flat tilings of sand stone, partly crumbled from age. The low ceilings, not more than seven feet high, and the partly decayed walls throughout all of these chambers, were so occupied with names and inscriptions of enthusiasts of all nations that scarcely the space of half an inch could be found wherein we might add our own little signatures. Among the many that we observed were those of Lord Byron, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, Washington Irving and David Garrick. But those mentioned had a few years prior been singled out and almost obliterated by an envious female care-taker, who wilfully did so under a fit of jealousy, for which act she was immediately after expelled. From Shakespeare's home, we rambled through a few green fields and hedge-rows, following a narrow foot-path for a mile and a quarter, being slightly interrupted occasionally by having to climb over a stile that had been placed in the rustic fence for the sole benefit of the pedestrians, the terminus of which brought us to the Hathaway cottage, the sacred abode and birthplace of Ann Hathaway, where she resided when first her virtues and charms attracted the poet, notwithstanding she was eight years his senior. This little home is entirely enveloped in a complete net of running ivy that wends its way from the foundation to the edge of its thatched roof, and is thickly interlaced with the fragrant yellowflowered jasmine, the evergreen rosemary, and plants of rue. Mrs. Mary Baker, a descendant of the Hathaways, devoted the prin-

690 IMPROVEMENT ERA. cipal part of her life from year to year receiving visitors to the cottage. She passed away, however, in 1898, at the age of eightysix, leaving her daughter-in-law to succeed her, who received us very courteously at her door, and spared neither time nor pains in making us acquainted with events connected with the cottage and its many sacred relics. Among the many that would tend to create inspiring thoughts in the mind of the appreciative observer, was a dryrotted old bench that had stood stationary near the cozy fireplace for more than three centuries. I took especial interest in this old stand-by, probably from the fact that according to tradition, it was upon it where cupid tied the knot between the poet and his lady love. Had I been able to give the old relic a tongue, what inspiring love tales it might have related, and no doubt it would have confided all in me, since I took so much interest in its once exalted station. We saw the old-fashioned, but well-preserved, bedstead where the lucky charmer slept during her earlier years, also the little Bible which records the date of her birth. After supping a draft of clear water, drawn from the old well near by, we thanked the little care-taker, paid her the regular fee of six pence, and resumed our way to the next place of interest which was found in the old Trinity Church, about three-fourths of a mile distant from the last named abode. In traveling from place to place, the eye meets with many other cottages with similar architectural embellishments to those already mentioned, the age of which alone would make them admirable, but nothing seems to impress the observer very deeply that he doesn't know to have some connection with Shakspeare. Almost before the mind's eye was prepared for the next feast, we found ourselves within the shades of the old place of worship, within the enclosure of which are interred the remains of the bard and his family, aside from the nobility and gentry. It is situated near the banks of the "Soft flowing Avon" whose silvery waters pursue the even tenor of its course, year after year, as calmly and peacefully as though they were conscious of their sacred situation. The tomb of the poet is directly in front of the altar, and that of his wife, near by. A large flat stone marks their separate graves with their names and dates of demise inscribed upon them. The

STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 691 following verse of four lines is also inscribed upon that the grave of the poet; said to have been composed by himself: Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbear To dig the dust enclosed here; Blessed be he who spares these stones, Cursed be he who mars my bones. This was not an unheeded warning, and has proved to have the desired effect, since it was contemplated, at one time, to remove his remains from the place of his birth to the Westminster Abbey, in London, where those of a great many English men and women of rank are interred; but, under the malediction of such condemnation, it was finally presumed well to leave them unmolested, and it sufficed to erect a monument in the Abbey to his memory. The tomb of Anne Hathaway Shakespeare bears the following inscription: HERE LIETH INTERRED THE BODY OF ANNE. WIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE THE SIXTH DAY OF AVGV, 1623 BEING OF THE AGE OF 67. Another feature of interest is a beautifully stained glass window upon either side of the church, given by the appreciative Americans, as a result of subscriptions from them, amounting to six thousand dollars, and which are known as the "American windows." One represents the "seven ages of man," very artistically personified by Moses, Samuel, Jacob, Joshua, Solomon, Abraham and Isaac; while the other, which is yet unfinished, will represent some startling events in the story of the new world under the headings, "The Landing of Columbus," "The Pilgrim Fathers," "The Declaration of Independence," etc. Many of the pews within the church are very aged, substantially built of English oak, and bear record of the lewd, licentious indulgences of priests and monks of by-gone days. Low, disgraceful figures, some originally from ancient mythology, are neatly and.

692 IMPR0VEMEN1 ERA. carefully carved, in relief, upon the backs of the seats, portraying subjects so disgusting that many have recently been obliterated under compulsory acts of the municipal government. From the church, we visited the old grammar school where the poet received the greater part of his schooling, many of the tables and benches of which are still there, bearing pocket-knife inscriptions of long ago. He entered this school at the early age of seven, and was compelled to leave at the age of thirteen. His father, being but a poor wool-comber, could not afford to give his promising son William further schooling. Adjoining the school room, is another room, of equal size,known as the Guild Hall, where the bard first witnessed an acted play, in company with his father, but where he afterwards became quite distinguished playing women's parts in the frequent theatricals given there. From thence, we went to the "Harvard House," another piece of quaint architecture of the Elizabethan age, built in 1569, for Thomas Rogers, where his daughter, Catherine, resided until she became the wife of Robert Harvard, and the mother of John Harvard, who afterwards emigrated to America and founded the Harvard University, near Boston. As the day had gradually worn away, and the sun had long since hid its rays beneath the western horizon, we were necessitated to bring our visit to a conclusion. The appreciation shown to Stratford-on-Avon by the Americans greatly supercedes that of any other nation. Only a few years ago, Shakespeare's home was about to undergo a change from the owner then, to an American, the latter intending to transfer it over the water to America, and there erect it for exhibition, when some British subject suddenly awoke and avoided the sale. In 1887, Mr. Childs of Philadelphia, erected the "American Fountain" to the memory of the poet, a handsome structure serving the purpose of a clock which chimes the Stratford quarters. Well may the world cherish the renown of, and posterity feel grateful to, the memory of Shakespeare, for his images of wisdom and jewels of thought which find such easy expression in his golden verses of English.