John and Betty's History Visit

“Yes,” was Mrs. Pitt’s reply. “It isn’t any wonder that she looked like that, is it? She is said to have been beautiful in her youth, but later, she became so very ugly that her ladies-in-waiting got false looking-glasses, for they didn’t dare to allow their mistress to see her wrinkles.”

After lingering for a short time in the grand old Abbey, they all mounted a bus and rode down to Bishopsgate Street to take lunch, at Crosby Hall.[A] This splendid old example of a London mediæval palace (having had a varied career since its great days), is now turned into a restaurant, and our party took seats at a long table in what was once the Banqueting-hall.

“This is really a very historic old house,” declared Mrs. Pitt. “It was built in 1470 by Alderman Sir John Crosby, who died about the time it was finished, and it passed into the hands of the Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard III. Here, that cruel man had the news of the successful murder of the little Princes in the Tower, and here held his great feasts—in this room, I suppose.”

They were all looking about at the lofty hall with its carved oak ceiling, minstrels’ gallery, stained-glass windows, and large fireplace.

“This has recently all been restored, and I suppose it gives us a very slight idea of its past glory. Later on, Sir Thomas More lived here, and then Philip Sidney’s sister, the Countess of Pembroke, owned it. Shakespeare mentions it in his play of ‘Richard III,’ you know. In mediæval times, there were many great houses in London (Baynard’s Castle and Cold Harbour foremost among them), but all except a little part of Crosby Hall have disappeared. The owners of these houses, the wealthy nobles, lived in great magnificence, having four, six, or even eight hundred servants. Just fancy how large the establishments must have been! In Queen Elizabeth’s day, the French Ambassador was lodged here with four hundred retainers. At that time, there were more great palaces in London than there were in Verona, Florence, Venice, and Genoa, all counted together; but instead of being situated on the Grand Canal or in a spacious square, the English palaces stood in narrow, filthy streets, surrounded by the poor hovels of the common people.—It seems to me that our lunch is a long time coming,” she commented.

Adjoining Crosby Hall is a very interesting church—St. Helen’s, which has been called the “Westminster Abbey of the City,” because of famous citizens of “the City,” who are buried there. Among them is Sir Thomas Gresham, the great merchant of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, who founded the Royal Exchange, and did much to increase London’s trade. The church—dating mostly from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century—is very quaint and old. It consists of two parallel naves, divided by pillars.

“The church was once connected with an ancient nunnery which covered the whole square outside. The naves were originally quite separated by a partition; one side was used by the nuns, and the other by the regular members of the parish. Shakespeare once lived in St. Helen’s parish, and is charged up on the church books with a sum of something over five pounds.” Mrs. Pitt gave this information as they walked about, gradually growing accustomed to the dim light.

“See here, John,” whispered Philip; “here’s something interesting. It’s this little square hole in the wall, which is called the ‘nuns’ squint.’ That woman, whom I suppose is the caretaker, has just been telling me what that means. You see, the nunnery was on this side, or, at any rate, the part where the nuns slept. When a nun was dying, the rest would carry her to that little ‘squint,’ and in that way she could look through to the church and see the altar.”

Leaving St. Helen’s Place, and passing the picturesque, narrow façade (or front) of Crosby Hall, Mrs. Pitt took them along Cheapside, one of the most crowded streets of the city. The amount of traffic is tremendous there, and it is said that sometimes teams are held eight hours in the alleys before they can get out. They noted Bow Church, and the site of John Gilpin’s house at the corner of Paternoster Row.

“Oh, is that the John Gilpin in Cowper’s poem?” cried John, excitedly. “He lived here, did he? And where did he ride to?”

“I believe he went out through Tottenham and Edmonton. Mrs. Gilpin was at the Bell Inn at Edmonton when she saw her husband fly by. Over the entrance at the Bell is such a funny picture of the scene! They don’t know just where he went, do they, Mother?” inquired Barbara.

“No, I rather think not,” was Mrs. Pitt’s laughing answer. “Let’s walk through Paternoster Row, now. The little bookshops are so old and quaint! For centuries the booksellers have been loyal to this locality, but I hear that they are beginning to move elsewhere now. Here’s Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane is not far away. In London, there’s a reason for the name of almost every street. The monks, in walking from the river to St. Paul’s, used to be telling their beads and reciting their prayers all the while. You see, the Ave Maria was said at this point, and back at the corner came an Amen. In olden days, the makers of rosaries and paternosters had their shops in the little street we have just left, as well as the booksellers. The streets leading off Cheapside show what business was carried on there; for instance, on the south side are Bread, Candles, Soap, Fish, and Money-changing; and on the north side are Wood, Milk, Iron, Honey, and Poultry. By the by, the poet Milton was born in Bread Street. The ironmongers congregated in Ironmongers Lane; the vintners or wine-merchants were in the Vintry; and the makers of hosiery in Hosiery Lane. Now we’ll go to Chancery Lane, and pay a short visit to the Record Office, for there are some things there which I want you to see.”

The Public Record Office is a modern building, constructed for the purpose of keeping the valuable State documents and archives, which, during the present reign, have been moved from the Tower and the Chapter House of Westminster Abbey. The different departments of government are continually handing over to the Record Office papers which are no longer needed for daily use. Among the intensely interesting treasures of this museum are the logbooks of the Royal Navy, and dispatches from Marlborough, Wellington, and others. There are State papers of Wolsey, and Thomas Cromwell, and letters of all the kings and queens, as well as of Chaucer, the Black Prince, Raleigh at the Tower, Lady Jane Grey as Queen, Sir Philip Sidney on his death-bed, and many, many others of equal interest.

“Why, you’d need a whole week to see all these!” exclaimed Betty, looking up from her examination of a paper containing the confessions of Guy Fawkes.

Mrs. Pitt glanced at her quickly. She was excited, and her face was flushed.

“Yes, and we must not stay any longer, for we have seen enough for one day. I want to show you just one more thing before we go, however, and this is more wonderful than all the rest. See, it is the great Doomsday Book!”

Carefully kept under glass, in cases furnished with dark shades to pull over when the books are not being examined, are the two large volumes of what is known as the “Doomsday Book.” On the ancient, yellowed parchment pages, and in strange old characters, are the records, made at the time of William the Conqueror, of the disposal of the lands of England among his Norman nobles. It is simply impossible to believe that it is authentic,—that such a very ancient relic really can exist!

They soon felt tired and ready to leave any further examination of the papers until another visit, however. There are times when all sight-seers, no matter how enthusiastic, come to a point where for that day they can appreciate no more. So our party adjourned to a little tea-shop in Regent Street, and afterwards, to make a few purchases at that fascinating shop,—Liberty’s.

CHAPTER TEN

“Hey! There goes Sir Walter Raleigh under the bridge there! I can see the name just as plainly! And,—well I never!—there come Lady Jane Grey and Sir Thomas More! Do all the boats have names like that? Wonder how the great people would like it if they knew! Sir Thomas is an express; he’s on official business this morning, and isn’t going to stop! Now! here comes Queen Elizabeth herself! Nothing less than a queen for me! I hope we’ll take her!” John cried excitedly.

The Queen Elizabeth did prove to be the Kew and Hampton Court boat, so when the gangway was put across, the five went on board and took some comfortable seats in the bow.

“Now, there are a number of things which I wish to point out to you right away,” remarked Mrs. Pitt, “so please be very attentive for a few moments. Just as soon as we are started and go under Westminster Bridge here, you will have the most beautiful view of the Houses of Parliament, on your right. There! See if the great building isn’t graceful from here! And isn’t its river-front imposing with all the statues of the sovereigns!

“Now! Quickly! Look to the left, and see the building with the gateway and square, blackened towers and battlements. That’s Lambeth Palace,” she added, “which has been the residence of the Archbishops of Canterbury (or the ‘Primates of England,’ as they are called) for six hundred years. It’s a delightful old place, with its fine library, and its several court-yards! It’s very historic as well, for in one of those towers, according to some people, the Lollards or followers of the religious reformer, Wycliffe, are said to have been tortured. Queen Elizabeth’s favorite, the unfortunate Earl of Essex, was imprisoned there, too.

“Here on our left was the famous amusement-park, Vauxhall, which was so popular in the eighteenth century. Some day when you read Thackeray’s novels you will find it mentioned. There on the right is Chelsea, where was Sir Thomas More’s home. I think his grounds bordered on the river, and he used to walk down to the bank, step into his boat, and his son would row him to the city. At his house there he was often visited by Henry VIII, Holbein, and the great Dutch scholar, Erasmus. Just behind those trees is Cheyne Walk, where Thomas Carlyle’s house still stands. (There’s the old Chelsea Church, which is most interesting, and Chelsea Hospital for old pensioners.) There have been many famous residents of Chelsea in more recent days; among them George Eliot, the great novelist, who died there; Edward Burne-Jones, the artist; Rossetti, the poet; Swinburne, Meredith, and Whistler. There! now I’ll leave you in peace to enjoy your boat-ride, and the music.”

They now came to a part of the river which is neither especially historic nor attractive, and the young people amused themselves for a while in talking, or listening to the rather crude music of some old musicians on the boat. It was not long, however, before the banks again became green and beautiful, and they passed odd little villages, and comfortable country-houses, whose smooth terraces slope down to the river. On the arrival of the boat at Kew, they went on shore and walked towards the celebrated Gardens.

“Have Kew Gardens any story or history to them, or are they just famous because of their flowers?” inquired Betty, as they passed through the gateway, and caught glimpses of bright blossoms within.

“Oh, rather!” replied Mrs. Pitt. “You’ll find plenty of history about here, Betty. Let’s look at the flowers first, though.”

Kew Gardens are most immaculately cared for. Wide gravel-paths stretch between the wonderful lawns, which are dotted with flower-beds of all shapes. There are hot-houses containing tropical plants, and in the “Rock Garden” is a pond where there are pelicans and other strange water birds. The party spent an hour very happily in wandering about, admiring the beautiful views as they went. Best of all were the rhododendrons, which were glorious at this season in their riot of pink, deep rose color, and lavender. Betty, who dearly loved flowers, could hardly be enticed away from that fascinating spot, and was only persuaded at mention of the old palace, which she had not yet seen.

When she reached it, she was rather disappointed. Kew Palace is not large, and altogether, is quite unlike a palace, although it was the favorite residence of George III and his queen, who died there in 1818.

“It just looks like any old red-brick Tudor house, which hasn’t any history at all. Even its rooms are all empty, and it isn’t the kind of a palace I like!” Betty declared in injured tones.

“Well, cheer up, Betty; we’re going to Hampton Court Palace soon, and I guess that’ll suit you all right. Is this where we take the tram, Mrs. Pitt? There’s one coming now!” John ran out into the road and gesticulated frantically, so that the motorman would be sure to stop. That dignified English personage looked rather surprised, but John did not care. He liked to take the lead, and to make himself useful whenever it was possible.

The ride was not quite as enjoyable as they had hoped, because of a very high wind. Upon their perch at the top of the tram, it required about all their attention to keep their hats and other belongings from blowing away. On the whole, they were quite content to get off at the bridge at Richmond, and walk up the long hill to the famous Star and Garter Inn.

“This hill seems longer than ever to-day, Mother,” Barbara complained. “When we reach that lovely surprise view (you know where I mean), let’s sit down and admire it while we rest a bit.”

“Very well, we will,” her mother panted; “we’re nearly there now.”

The view to which Barbara and her mother referred proved to be really very beautiful. On one side of the hill is a little park from which a precipice descends to the river. Looking through an opening in the luxuriant foliage of the trees (an opening which takes the place of a picture-frame), one sees a glorious view of the green valley below, through which the lazy Thames winds dreamily; and if the day is clear, Windsor Castle may just be discerned in the distance.

“Philip, you and John go and engage one of those drivers over opposite the hotel, to take us for a little drive in the Park; as soon as I order our luncheon, I’ll be out again to go along.” With that, Mrs. Pitt disappeared for a few moments into the Star and Garter.

Richmond Park is a favorite resort for tourists, and driving and bicycle parties. It contains some fine old trees, and a great many deer which add to its attractiveness. Mrs. Pitt directed the coachman not to drive about much, however, but to show them two points of interest.

“This is the ‘King’s Mound,’” she observed, as the horses slowed down. “Yes, that little low mound of earth just this side of the clump of trees. I’ll admit that it looks uninteresting enough; but it is known as the spot where Henry VIII stood while listening for the sound of the gun at the Tower, which told him of the execution of Anne Boleyn.”

“Ugh!” Betty interposed, in disgusted tones, giving a little shudder. “Think how he must have felt! Horrid old thing!”

“Don’t be silly, Betty!” retorted John. “I guess a little thing like that wouldn’t trouble him!”

Almost in the center of the Park is a house called White Lodge, which has long been a royal residence. It is approached by an avenue, which was the scene of Jeanie Deans’s interview with Queen Caroline, as Scott describes it in his “Heart of Midlothian.”

Their lunch was quickly over, and they were again on their way down the long hill. In the town of Richmond, they mounted another tram for the forty-minute ride to Hampton Court.

“If we only had had a bit more time,” Mrs. Pitt apologized, “I should have shown you what still remains of the famous old palace of Richmond. Henry VIII and Elizabeth both held their courts there often, and there the latter died in 1603. The palace was destroyed by order of Parliament in 1649; only a small part of it was spared, and in that the widow of Charles I, poor Queen Henrietta Maria, was allowed to live. Are you getting plenty of history, Betty, my dear?”

“Oh, yes, but I’m always ready for more,” smiled that young lady in response.

The tram set them down very near the great palace of Hampton Court. They went quickly through the entrance-gates of wrought iron, and walked towards the building itself. This West Front is as Wolsey left it, and is made of the old crimson bricks, with here and there a black one. Passing under the gatehouse, they came into the Green or Base Court, and here they paused to look about them.

“You’ll remember that the great and powerful Cardinal Wolsey built Hampton Court,” suggested Mrs. Pitt. “He lived in regal state, and had almost as large a retinue of servants and followers as the King himself. To gratify his great love for splendor and luxury, he built this magnificent residence for himself. He was in need of a home a little removed from the city, where he could rest and enjoy the fresh air. Yet it was also accessible to London, for he could be rowed up the river in his barge. Wolsey’s two great ambitions—wealth and power—were both gratified, and for a while all went well; but time brought the King’s displeasure, and it was he who took possession at Hampton Court after the complete disgrace which led to the death of the Cardinal. Henry VIII tore down some of Wolsey’s buildings, and put up new ones in their stead; and other monarchs added portions also; for instance, the huge State Apartments were erected under the supervision of Sir Christopher Wren, and by order of King William III. We shall see all these later on. Have you noticed those little oriel windows of the gatehouse? They are the originals of Wolsey’s palace, and I think this court here is also much the same as he built it. In his day there were pretty latticed windows in these surrounding buildings, a grass plot in the center, and around these narrow passages Wolsey probably rode on his ass.”

“Ass!” cried John. “What for? With all his money, couldn’t he even have a horse?”

“Oh, rather!” Mrs. Pitt laughed. “No doubt Wolsey would have liked one, but he was wise enough to always follow custom in such matters as had to do with his outward appearance and attitude. All religious men rode on asses; it was the habit of the day. Now, come this way, and see the Great Hall. Oh, Philip! Please fetch me my umbrella; I left it on the step in the court, there!”

Leading into the second or Clock Court, is Anne Boleyn’s gateway. Under this is a broad flight of stairs which takes one to the Great Hall, erected by Henry VIII, probably on the site of Wolsey’s earlier hall. It is a grand old room with a fine timber roof, and complete with its daïs or raised platform at the end, its minstrels’ gallery over the entrance doors, its old tapestries, stags’ heads, and suits of armor, and its windows mostly filled with modern stained-glass. Out of the hall are two smaller apartments, which also contain good tapestries. From here, the visitor again descends to Anne Boleyn’s gateway.

“What a funny old clock!” exclaimed Betty, spying it, up above on the tower under which they had just passed. “It seems to be so mixed up, somehow, that I can’t tell the time by it.”

“It is curious! It’s Henry VIII’s Astronomical Clock; it has all sorts of appliances and strange attachments. That’s why you can’t read it. It was recently repaired and set going again.”

“The King’s Grand Staircase” is broad, stately, and quite as impressive as its name, and this leads to the pompous State Apartments. These great square rooms, one opening out of another, seemed endless to the young people, and contained no attractions for them. The walls are covered with pictures, some of which are fine, but there are so many which are very similar that even Sir Peter Lely, Holbein, and Van Dyck become hopelessly tiresome. These rooms also contain some old furniture which is interesting, but on the whole, the best thing about them is the ever charming view of the gardens from the windows. The visitor may enter one tiny room called “Wolsey’s Closet,” which is deeply impressive with its paneled walls and ancient ceiling. The very atmosphere of the sixteenth century still seems to linger here, and one can easily believe that nothing herein has been changed since the great Cardinal used it daily. Near this is a long gallery which is supposed to be haunted by the ghost of Queen Catharine Howard. After the dullness of the State Apartments, this possessed great interest for the boys, and they lingered here as long as Mrs. Pitt would allow. They were forced to come away disappointed, however, without having heard even one little scream.

“You’d better spend the night here, John,” remarked Philip, in teasing tones. “That’s the proper time to see and hear ghosts.” John decided not to wait, however.

Of all the one thousand rooms of the great palace, they saw only one more, and that was Henry VIII’s Gothic Chapel, gorgeous in its fine carving and gilding, and in which the magnificent ceremony of the baptism of Prince Edward, afterwards Edward VI, was held.

The gardens of Hampton Court are perhaps better known and enjoyed than the palace itself. They are very extensive, and are laid out in the French style. Directly before the long front of William III’s addition, is a great round basin with a fountain, and beyond stretches the “Long Canal,”—a straight and narrow artificial pond, bordered by very beautiful trees. Then there is the “Home Park” on either side of the canal; here Henry VIII and Catharine Howard probably wandered often during their long honeymoon at Hampton Court; and here William III was riding on the day when he was thrown from his horse and killed.

There is what is called the “Wilderness,”—in reality a maze—which was greatly enjoyed by the party; and nearer the palace, again, is the tennis-court, where that game has been played for three centuries and a half. Some of the players here have been Henry VIII, the Earl of Leicester, Charles I, Charles II, and the present King, Edward VII, when he was Prince of Wales.

“And didn’t that American, Pettitt, play here?” inquired John. “He won the World’s Championship in England, you know. Yes, I thought it was here, though the word Hampton Court never meant much to me before to-day.”

There is still the remarkable Hampton Court Vine, the fame of which has spread so far. The vine fills a whole greenhouse, and one of its branches is a hundred and fourteen feet long. The attendant told Betty that the crop consists of about eight hundred bunches, each one weighing a pound. Having duly marveled at this, they explored Queen Mary’s lovely bower or arbor, where that Queen used to sit with her ladies at the tapestry-frames.

“Dear me, let’s go back now!” said Betty. “I’m sure we’ve been miles over these grounds.”

So they walked along the paths where Henry VIII made love to Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard, where Queen Elizabeth took her morning walks, and where Pope, Swift, Addison, and Walpole wandered in more recent days.

“I think I haven’t mentioned Cromwell to you in connection with Hampton Court, but he must not be forgotten, for he came here after he was made Protector, and lived with as much pomp and splendor as any king. Every time I visit this palace I marvel at the amount of history with which it is connected, and at the number of scenes for which it was the setting!”

As she spoke, Mrs. Pitt was leading the way to the railroad-station. A London train came along very soon, fortunately, but they ran up and down in vain looking for seats in their customary third-class compartment. These were all crowded, the following day being a “bank holiday,” so when the guard at last came to their rescue, he put them in a first-class compartment. This greatly interested John and Betty, as they had not seen one before.

“It isn’t so very different, after all,” commented Betty. “The cushions are a little nicer, and there’s carpet on the floor, but that’s the only change from an ordinary third-class carriage.”

“I know it,” said Philip. “And most English people never think of traveling first-class except on a long journey; for it really is very little better, and the price is so ruinously dear!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As they came into the central and older part of the town, however, even John was forced to admit that it was “different,” after all. Along Stratford’s narrow, clean little streets stand many old houses adorned with great oak timbers, quaint inscriptions, and carvings; and quicker than all else, the sight of these, remaining here and there between the more modern structures, makes one feel the antiquity of the place. These houses totter a little, and lean their upper stories over the street,—perhaps with a kind of curiosity to see better the strange and more and more startling scenes which the centuries bring forth. For instance, what must these ancient houses, which perchance witnessed the passing of some splendid pageant of the “spacious times of Queen Elizabeth,” think of the bustle and prosperous commercial air which the town has gradually taken on? What of the sight-seers whose automobiles go tearing along, uttering weird and frightful sounds? No wonder the old houses stand on tiptoe and bend farther and farther over the street in their amazement and horror!

The young people were delighted with the odd little Red Horse Hotel. As it was market-day, the wide street before it was crowded with people, and down the middle was a row of queer, covered wagons, in which the farmers bring their produce, and which are used as stalls on arrival at the market-place. The little hotel is severely plain and square, and has a passage leading into an old-time court-yard. Inside, it has quaint little rooms filled with antique furniture, narrow corridors, and uneven floors, with here a step up, and there two steps down. Leaving their luggage in the rooms assigned to them, the party immediately set out for “the Birthplace,” as all Stratford people invariably call the famous Shakespeare house on Henley Street.

“Is that it!” gasped John, as they stood on the opposite side of the way and gazed across at the first home of the great Poet. “Why, I didn’t suppose it was as big as that! And it doesn’t look old a bit!”

Shakespeare’s birthplace has been too often pictured, and is far too familiar to all to need any description given it here. Perhaps it does seem rather larger than we imagined, and the outside certainly looks surprisingly strong and new.

“But you know it now belongs to the nation,” Mrs. Pitt explained, “and is always kept in perfect condition. The last restoration was finished only about fifty or sixty years ago. Although the house was so completely renewed, the greatest care was used to make it look as nearly as possible as it did at the time of Shakespeare’s birth in 1564. That window above the entrance, with the little diamond panes, is the original, and is in the room in which the Poet was born.”

Going under the old porch and through the door with its high threshold, our friends found themselves in the family living-room of the house. It is low and rather dark, and has whitewashed walls and an earthen floor. This was in all probability the kitchen and dining-room as well, and one is reminded of the fact by a huge fireplace which juts out into the room. In olden times this would have been filled with great pots and kettles hanging over the fire on cranes. The chimney is deep enough and wide enough to have two little seats within it—one on either side. John quickly bent down and seated himself where he could look straight up the chimney and see a square patch of blue sky.

When Mrs. Pitt saw him, she smiled and said, “No doubt, Shakespeare himself, when he was a small boy, often sat right there with his brothers and sisters. It must have been very pleasant on cold winter evenings, to creep into these ‘inglenooks,’ as they were called, beside the great blazing fire, and tell stories. I think the children should have felt themselves very lucky to have such delightfully warm quarters!”

From a small entry at the rear of this room, the narrow winding stairs lead to the floor above. Before going up, Mrs. Pitt wrote their names in the huge Visitors’ Book. Betty was much pleased to find, while carelessly turning its pages, the name of a girl friend who had been in England the previous summer.

“How queer that I should see Evelyn’s name!” she exclaimed; “but I guess almost everybody who visits England comes to this house.”

“Aye! We ’ave thousands of visitors ’ere every year, Miss, and the most of ’em are Americans, it do appear to me! They do be powerful fond o’ Shakespeare!” The attendant shook his head knowingly as he gave Betty this information.

One of the most interesting rooms in the whole world is that chamber on the second floor in which the great Shakespeare was born. In itself, it is not in any way remarkable; it contains but a chair or two, and an old table, which holds a bust of the Poet. But its plaster walls, low ceiling, and even its window-panes, are inscribed with the names of great people,—poets, authors, statesmen, men of all countries, occupations, and beliefs,—who have journeyed here to pay their tribute to the greatest of all poets and writers.

“Whenever I meet people who believe that Lord Bacon or any other man wrote Shakespeare’s plays, I never discuss the question with them, for I have no arguments to withstand their claims,” said Mrs. Pitt intently. “I only remind myself that if such men as Browning, Thackeray, Kean, Scott, and Carlyle, who have all left their signatures here, believed that the ‘immortal Shakespeare’ wrote his own plays, I can feel safe in believing so, too. Therefore I want you to understand, children, that you are standing in the room where Shakespeare was born, and be glad all your lives when you remember that you have seen it.”

The other room on the second floor—a kind of attic—contains an important picture of Shakespeare. It is called the “Stratford Portrait,” as it was discovered in that native town, and it is now thought to have been painted in the eighteenth century, from a bust.

The Shakespeare house is double. In the other half, which is now a museum, John Shakespeare, the father of the Poet, used to have his shop and carry on his trade, or trades, for, like many people at that time, he had several. This museum now contains many relics of Shakespeare, which are more or less authentic, as well as a large number of First Editions of his plays. The young people were interested in an old desk, much scratched and marred, which it is supposed that the Poet used when at the Guild School. It is not clear whether it was when he was a pupil there, or at the time he was “Junior Master,” as he is thought to have been by some. The desk is long and narrow, having but one little opening into which a hand could be reached to pull out the books. It occurred to John that it would have been a very convenient place to hide apples or pickles, or any such forbidden articles, as the master could never even suspect their existence in that dark interior.

“You will see where that desk once stood,” remarked Mrs. Pitt, “for later, I shall show you the old Guild Hall, and the room where the Stratford boys had their lessons. Now, we are all hungry, and we’ll go straight to the Shakespeare Hotel and have some luncheon. Don’t you all approve that plan?”

Before leaving “the Birthplace,” it must be remembered that there exists a really very picturesque old English garden. In it were planted, about fifty years ago, a quantity of the flowers which are mentioned in the plays of Shakespeare, and the result is a very lovely mass of brightly-colored, old-fashioned flowers.

At the Shakespeare Hotel, they were served a typically English luncheon of mutton, peas seasoned with mint, greens, and afterwards a “gooseberry tart.” John and Betty were in gales of laughter when the shy, rosy-cheeked maid asked if they would have some “jammed fingers.”

“What in the world does she mean?” inquired Betty, between her giggles.

“I don’t know, I am sure. Do you, Barbara? Oh, yes I do! Probably she means ‘jam fingers.’ I have heard the name. Please bring us some,” Mrs. Pitt requested.

The “jammed fingers” proved to be long strips of pastry with jam between. They were very good, and John and Betty much preferred them to the sour gooseberries, to which they had not taken at all kindly.

The Shakespeare Hotel is much like its neighbor, the Red Horse, except for the fact that each room bears the name of one of Shakespeare’s plays.

“How lovely it would be to sleep in the ‘Romeo and Juliet’ room,—if there is one!” Betty sighed. “I almost wish we had planned to stay here, although I do want to write letters on the table in Washington Irving’s room at the Red Horse!”

Very near the Shakespeare Hotel is what is known as the “John Harvard House,”[B]—more accurately, the girlhood home of the mother of John Harvard. It is high and narrow, but fully as picturesque as is the nearby Tudor House, which is large and square. Both are excellent examples of Elizabethan houses, and are very quaint and pretty. The lower floor of the Tudor House is a most fascinating shop, in which one may find a really astonishing number of post-cards, books, pictures, and little souvenirs relating to Shakespeare.

“Seems to me, everything, from the hotel to the cheapest post-card, has the name of Shakespeare attached to it somehow!”

“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: