From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought me to hisgrave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a large andvenerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. Itstands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, andseparated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Itssituation is quiet and retired: the river runs murmuring at the footof the churchyard, and the elms which grow upon its banks drooptheir branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs ofwhich are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an archedway of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the churchporch. The graves are overgrown with grass; the gray tombstones,some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss,which has likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small birdshave built their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls,and keep up a continual flutter and chirping; and rooks are sailingand cawing about its lofty gray spire.
In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed sexton,Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key of the church. He hadlived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still toconsider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception that hehad nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His dwellingwas a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows;and was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, whichpervade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low whitewashedroom, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor,kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered alongthe dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and polished, laythe family Bible and prayer-book, and the drawer contained thefamily library, composed of about half a score of well-thumbedvolumes. An ancient clock, that important article of cottagefurniture, ticked on the opposite side of the room; with a brightwarming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man'shorn-handled Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, waswide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In onecorner sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyedgirl,- and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, whom headdressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been hiscompanion from childhood. They had played together in infancy; theyhad worked together in manhood; they were now tottering about andgossiping away the evening of life; and in a short time they willprobably be buried together in the neighboring church-yard. It isnot often that we see two streams of existence running thus evenly andtranquilly side by side; it is only in such quiet "bosom scenes" oflife that they are to be met with.
I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard fromthese ancient chroniclers; but they had nothing new to impart. Thelong interval during which Shakspeare's writings lay in comparativeneglect has spread its shadow over his history; and it is his goodor evil lot that scarcely any thing remains to his biographers but ascanty handful of conjectures.
The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters onthe preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and theyremembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who superintended thearrangements, and, who, according to the sexton, was "a short punchman, very lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cuttingdown Shakspeare's mulberry tree, of which he had a morsel in hispocket for sale; no doubt a sovereign quickener of literaryconception.
I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubiouslyof the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare house. John Ange shookhis head when I mentioned her valuable collection of relics,particularly her remains of the mulberry tree; and the old sexton evenexpressed a doubt as to Shakspeare having been born in her house. Isoon discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as arival to the poet's tomb; the latter having comparatively but fewvisitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, andmere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into differentchannels even at the fountain head.
We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and entered bya Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors of massive oak.
The interior is spacious, and the architecture and embellishmentssuperior to those of most country churches. There are severalancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hangfuneral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls.
The tomb of Shakspeare is in the chancel. The place is solemn andsepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon,which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up a lowperpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard isburied. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have beenwritten by himself, and which have in them something extremelyawful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about thequiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities andthoughtful 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.
