“From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought me to his grave.
He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a large and
venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on
the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining
gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and
retired: the river runs murmuring at the foot of the church-yard, and
the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clear
bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced,
so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate
of the yard to the church-porch. The graves are overgrown with grass;
the grey tomb-stones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half
covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old building.
Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and fissures of
the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirping; and rooks are
sailing and cawing about its lofty grey spire.
“We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and entered by a
gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors of massive oak. The
interior is spacious, and the architecture and embellishments superior
to those of most country churches. There are several ancient monuments
of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and
banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakspeare is in
the chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before
the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from
the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot
where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to
have been written by himself, and which have in them something extremely
awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the
quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and
thoughtful minds:--
‘Good friend, for Jesus’ sake, forbeare
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be he that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones.’
“Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakspeare,
put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The
aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched forehead; and I
thought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social
disposition, by which he was as much characterized among his
contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription
mentions his age at the time of his decease--fifty-three years; an
untimely death for the world: for what fruit might not have been
expected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from
the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of
popular and royal favour.
[Illustration: The bust of Shakespeare in its memorial niche.]
“The inscription on the tomb-stone has not been without its effect. It
has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his native
place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contemplated. A few
years since also, as some labourers were digging to make an adjoining
vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an
arch, through which one might have reached into his grave. No one,
however, presumed to meddle with his remains, so awfully guarded by a
malediction; and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector
of relics, should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept
watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished and the
aperture closed again. He told me that he had made bold to look in at
the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones; nothing but dust. It
was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakspeare.
[Illustration: Shakspeare.]
“Next to his grave are those of his wife, his favourite daughter Mrs.
Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is a
full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious memory; on
whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other
monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that is not
connected with Shakspeare. His idea pervades the place: the whole pile
seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted
by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence; other traces of him may be
false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty.
As I trod the sounding pavement, there was something intense and
thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakspeare
were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I could
prevail upon myself to leave the place; and as I passed through the
church-yard I plucked a branch from one of the yew-trees, the only relic
that I have brought from Stratford.”
Mr. Irving’s paper continues in a very pretty description of his visit
to the old family seat of the Lucys at Charlecot, whose park was the
scene of the hair-brained exploits of which Shakspeare’s boyhood has
been accused. Our limits will not allow us to dwell longer on this
subject, except to give the concluding paragraph of Mr. Irving’s
reflections on Stratford-on-Avon:--
“He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest
of worldly favour, will find, after all, that there is no love, no
admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up
in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace
and honour among his kindred and his early friends. And when the weary
heart and failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is
drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the mother’s arms,
to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. How would
it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, when, wandering forth
in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his
paternal home; could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should
return to it covered with renown; that his name should become the boast
and glory of his native place; that his ashes should be religiously
guarded as its most precious treasure; and that its lessening spire, on
which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day
become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the
literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb!”
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MEANINGS OF WORDS.--No. 6.
Words in _ly_ (German, _lich_).