The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1886-10-09
THE HOME OF SHAKESPEARE.
BY REV. j. W. HANSON, d. d.
Missionary at atGlasgow.l

BY REV. j. w. HANSON, ID. ID.
Missionary at Glasgow
Leaving Glasgow in the middle of
the forenoon | reached Stratford- on
Avon in the early evening. Scarcely
waiting to register my name at the Red
Horse Inn, hastened to find the low
ly cottage i'll which the immortal Bard
of Avon was born. The moon was at
the full, and the sky was cloudless.
The quiet streets of the rural village
scarcely showed a wayfarer besides my
self, as / stood before the quaint build
ing in which the youthful Shakespeare
dwelt, still retaining the exact appear
ance it wore more than three hundred
years ago. Long | stood before the
house, and strange and pleasing were
the emotions l felt as l wandered back
and forth before this shrine Of genius.
Returning to the hotel found most
delightful experiences. Who has not
read and who does not remember the
delicious descriptions by Washington
Irving, of his pilgrimage to this place !?
And who has ten the fascinating
pages of Hawthorne, ON the same
theme? In the Red Horse, in which
they both were domiciled, it really
seemed as though | had found them
both, and they were to be nay guides.
as indeed they were, for, recalling their
words. it was almost like enjoying their
companionship, especially, as in the
room that Irving occupied, l saw the
very armchair he sat in, and handled
the very poker which he called his
''scepter," ami has immortalized - the
chair now kept behind glass, and the
poker carefully wrapped from rust and
coTr0sion. 1t was, indeed, a fitting
preface and prelude TO the experiences
of the coming day TO occupy the room
where Irving and Hawthorne had sat,
ana TO read what they mad SO long ago
written of their own experiences in
this immortal spct.
The morning was a perfect one in
the middle of perfect English May.
The sky was cloudless the air was
balm the hawthorn was just string
ing its white beads along the branches :;
the daisies were ON all the grass the
larks were bubbling over with melody,
singing at Heavens gates" as
Shakespeare says,-and | recalled
George Herbert's lines, that must have
been written ON such day-"There is
no month but May -
The house, seen by daylight, is piece
of antique architecture, of timber and
plaster, as Irving well says, "A true
nesting place of genius, which seems
to delight in Matching its nestlings in
by-corneTs." The building is now
owned and controlled by an association
that will keep it as depository of val
liable memorials of the great bard, and
will preserve it from decay and dam
age. Its lower rooms are as when the
youthful poet played on its floors of
stone, the Identical flags remaining on
the lower floor, as when his father fol-
lowed his pursuit of wool-cOmbing, and
the boy ran about at play. All sorts of
relics Of the poet are shown with great
garrulity by the kindly old lady who
serves as guide; all she says, of course,
must be devoutly believed to be genu-
inc by the experienced traveller, even to
the lantern with which Friar Lawrence
discovered Juliet at the tomb
ThemostinteTesting spot in the house,
perhaps the most interesting literary
object on earth, is the room up stairs,
where Shakespeare was born. The
oaken beams are yet sound, and the ap-
pearance of the room is much the same
as when the most marvellous intellect
earth has produced, was introduced into
this world. Nothing but an actual
experience can convey to the mind the
emotions Of one who surveys this mod
est house, and, inside and outside, con-
templates the reminders Of the great
dramatist that are still extant.
The ancient cottage, about a mile
distant, where dwelt Anne Hathaway
hepoet's wife, is well worth the delight
full walk it costs, along a perfect road,
! among green hedges, and one can easily