“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.