A VISIT TO STRATFORD
A ROOM IN THE OLD GRAMMAR SCHOOL, AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON
I could never forget the emotion with which my mind was thrilled when first I took the drive from Warwick to Stratford (1877), and alighted at the old Red Horse Hotel. The day had been one of exceptional beauty. The long twilight had faded, and the stars were shining when that night, for the first time, I stood at the door of the birthplace of Shakespeare, and looked on its quaint casements and gables, its antique porch, and the massive timbers that cross its front. I conjure up the vision now, as I saw it then. I stand there for a long while, and feel that I shall remember these sights forever. Then, with lingering steps, I turn away, and, passing through a narrow, crooked lane, I walk in the High Street, and note at the end of the prospect the illuminated clock in a dark church-tower. A few chance-directed steps bring me to what was New Place once, where Shakespeare died, and there again I pause and long remain in meditation, gazing into the inclosed garden, where, under screens of wire, are fragments of mortar and stone. These—although I do not know it—are the remains of the foundations of Shakespeare’s house. The night wanes, but still I walk in Stratford streets, and by and by I am standing on the bridge that spans the Avon, and looking down at the thick-clustered stars reflected in the dark and silent stream. At last, under the roof of the Red Horse, I sink into a troubled slumber, from which soon a strain of celestial music, strong, sweet, jubilant, and splendid, awakens me in an instant, and I start up in bed,—to find that all around me is as still as death; and then, drowsily, far off, the bell strikes three, in that weird, grim, lonesome church-tower which I have just seen.
NEW PLACE GARDENS STRATFORD-UPON-AVON
Where Shakespeare’s house stood