New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1878-08-03
THE TRIP TO ENGLAND.
sTRATFoRD-oN-AvoN.
III

TIE ANON-FiRSI NIGHT IN bihAIhNtND ~
PErUAL NOVELTY OF. sHAKEsPEAREAN AssocIA
ToNs-BTRTHPLACE OF sHAKEsPEARE--ANNE
HATHAwAY's CoTTAGR-THE GARDENS OF NEW
PLAcE-sHAKEsPEARE's GRAVE.
Once again. as it did on that delicious Summer af-
ternOon which is forever memorable in my life the
golden glory of the westering sun burns on the
gray spre of stratford Church, and on the ancient
graveyard below-wherein the messy stones lean
this way and that in sweet and orderly confusion
and on the peaceful avenue of lines, and on the
diminished waters of silver Avon The tall, arched,
mauy-colored windows of the church CLINT IN the
evening light A cool and fragrant wind Is stirring
the branches and the grass The small birds, cali
ing to their mates or sporting IN the wantoh
pleasure of their airy life, are circing
over the church roof or hiding IN little Gre
vices of its walls. On the vacant meadows across
the river stretch away the long and level shadows
of the pompOus elms. Here and there, upon the
rivers brink are pairs of what seem lovers strolhg
by the roedy marge, sitting upon the low tomDs'
IN the Sabbath quiet. As the sun sinks ana the DUSK
deepens two figures of intirm old women, ciao III
black mass with slow and feeble steps through the
avenue of lines, and vanish around an angle OF the
cbnreh--which now stands all IN shadow: and no
sound is heard but the faint rustng of the leaves.
Once again. as on that sacred night the streets OF
Straifor are deserted and silent under the star-it
skv. and am standing in the dim darkness at the
door Of the cottage in which Shakespeare was born
II is empty dark and stills and in all the nelghtOr-
hood there is no stir nor sign of life but the quaint
easements and gables of this haunted house, lts
antoue porch and the great timbeIs that cross It's
front are luminous as with light OF their own SO
that see them with perfect distinctness stand
there long time, and know that am to remem-
Der these sights forever as see them now. AFTER
while with lingering reluctance, turn away from
This marvellous spot, and, presently, passing
through a little, winding lane, L walk IN
the High Street of the town, and mark
at the end of the prospect, the hluml-
mated clock in che tower of the Chapel OF the
Holy Cross A few chance-directed steps bring me
10 what was New Place once, where Shakespeare
died; and there again pause, and long remain III
meditation gazing into the nclosed garden, where,
under frames of glass; certain strange fragments
of lime and stone. These-which dOnot then know
are the remains of the foundation of Shakespeares
house The night wanes; and still walk in STRAIT
ford Streets and by and by am standing on the
bridge that spans the Avon. and looking down at the
thick. clustering stars reflected in its black and
silent stream. At last, under the roof of the Red
Horse sink into troubled slumber, from when
very soon strain Of celestial musc-strong, sweet,
iubilant, and splendid-awakens me in an instant,
and start up in my bed-to find that all around me
is still as death; and them drowsy, faroH, the bell
strikes three, in its weird and lonesome tower.
Every pilgrim to Stratford knows beforehand, in
a general way, what he viii there behold. Copious
and frequent description of its Shakespearean assO-
Citations have made the place familiar to all the
world. Yet these Shakespearean associations keep
perennial freshness and are equally surprise to the
sight and wonder to the soul. Though three cen
turtles old they are not vet stricken with age or de-
cav. The house in Henley-st, in which, according
TO accepted tradition, Shakespeare was born, has
been from time to time Iepared and so II has been
kept sound without having been materially changed
from what it was in Shakespeare's youth. The KIND
old ladies who now take care of it, and, with so
much pride and courtesy, show it to the visitor,
called my attention to bit of the ceiling of the
upper chamber-the alleged room of Shakespeare's
birth-which had begun to sag, and had been
quite sklfully mended with little laths. 1t is in
this room that the numerous autographs
are scrawed all over the ceiling and walls. One
side of the chimney -pece here called The Actors
Pillar $50 thIckly is it covered with the names of
actors; Edmund Kean's signature being among
them and still clearly legible On one OF the win
dOw-panes cut with diamond, IS the name of Wal
ter Scott and all the panes scratched with sig
natures-making you think of Douglas JerrOlds re-
mark on bad Shakespearean commentators, that
they resemble persons who write on glass with dia-
monds, and obscure the light with multitude OF
scratches. The floor of this room, uncarpeted, and
almost snow-white with much washing. seems still
as hard as iron; yet its boards have been followed
by wear and the heads of the old nails that fasen
IL down CLEAN like polished silver. Ycu can sit in
an antique chair, in the corner of this room If you
like, and think unutterable things. There is,
ofalr fba
feeling with which you are there overwhelmed.
You can sit, also, in the room below, in the
very seat, in the corner of the wide fireplace,
that Shakespeare himself must often have Occu-
pied They keep but few sticks of furniture in any
part Of the cottage. One Is devoted to
Shakespearean curiOsities-or relics-mOre or less
authentic one of which is a schOOl-boy's form, OF
desk that was obtained from the old grammar
school, in High-st.-nOw modern in ITS appointments
In which Shakespeare was once pupil. At the
back of the cottage, isolated from all contigu-
Gus structures pleasant garden, and at one side
il a coscy luxurious little cabinthe home Of order
and of pious decOrum-fOr the ladies who are custO
dams of the Shakespeare House. If you are ia
vored visitor, you may receive, from this garden at
parting, all the flowers, pretty affixed to sheet Of
purpleedged paper. that poor Opheta names, IN the
scene of her madness There's rosemary that's for
remembrance: and there is pansIes. that's for
thoughts: there's fennel for you, and columbines:
there's rue for you: there's daisy:-I would give
you some vOlets; but they withered all when my
father died"
The minute knowledge that Shakespeare had Of
plants and flowers and the loving appreciation
with which he describes pastoral scenery are ex-
planned to the rambler in StrafOrd, by all that he
sees and hears. There is walk across the fields to
shottery-wlich the poet must often have taken,
in the days of his oourtship of Anne Hathaway
whereon the feet Of the traveller buried in wild
flowers and furrow weeds. The high road to that
hamlet also, passes through rich meadows, and
Vo.1s 4oou,{o Nth orain flecLad evcrvubere with