# Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Stratford upon Avon

STRATFORD UPON AVON.
What nurtured Shakspeare mid these village-shades,
Making a poor deer-stalking lad, a king
In the broad realm of mind?
 I questioned much
Whatever met my view, the holly-hedge,
The cottage-rose, the roof where he was born,
And the pleached avenue of limes, that led
To the old Church. And pausing there, I marked
The mossy efflorescence on the stones,
Which, kindling in the sun-beam, taught me how
Its little seeds were fed by mouldering life,
And how another race of tiny roots,
The fathers of the future, should compel
From hardest-hearted rocks a nutriment,
Until the fern-plant and the ivy sere
Made ancient buttress and grim battlement
Their nursing-mothers.
 But again I asked,
"What nurtured Shakspeare?" The rejoicing birds
Wove a wild song, whose burden seemed to be,
He was their pupil when he chose, and knew
Their secret maze of melody to wind,
Snatching its sweetness for his winged strain
With careless hand.
 The timid flowerets said,
"He came among us like a sleepless bee,
And all those pure and rarest essences,
Concocted by our union with the skies,
Which in our cups or zones we fain would hide,
He rifled for himself and bore away."
—The winds careering in their might replied,
"Upon our wings he rode and visited
The utmost stars. We could not shake him off.
Even on the fleecy clouds he laid his hand,
As on a courser's mane, and made them work
With all their countless hues his wondrous will."
—And then meek Avon raised a murmuring voice,
What time the Sabbath-chimes came pealing sweet
Through the umbrageous trees, and told how oft
Along those banks he wandered, pacing slow,
As if to read the depths.
 Ere I had closed
My questioning, the ready rain came down,
And every pearl-drop as it kissed the turf
Said,"We have been his teachers. When we fell
Pattering among the vine-leaves, he would list
Our lessons as a student, nor despise
Our simplest lore."
And then the bow burst forth,
That strong love-token of the Deity
Unto a drowning world. Each prismed ray
Had held bright dalliance with the bard, and helped
To tint the woof in which his thought was wrapped
For its first cradle-sleep.
 Then twilight came
In her grey robe, and told a tender tale
Of his low musings, while she noiseless drew
Her quiet curtain. And the queenly moon,
Riding in state upon her silver car,
Confessed she saw him oft, through chequering shades,
Hour after hour, with Fancy by his side,
Linking their young imaginings, like chains
Of pearl and diamond.
 Last, the lowly grave,—
Shakspeare's own grave,—sent forth a hollow tone,
—"The heart within my casket read itself,
And from that inward study learned to scan
The hearts of other men. It pondered long
In those lone cells, where nameless thought is born,
Explored the roots of passion, and the founts.
Of sympathy, and at each sealed recess
Knocked, until mystery fled. Hence her loved bard
Nature doth crown with flowers of every hue,
And every season, and the human soul
Owning his power, shall at his magic touch
Shudder, or thrill, while age on age expires."
October 11, 1840.
Many circumstances conspired to make our visit to Stratford upon Avon one of peculiar interest. We had the finest autumnal weather, and so perfect a full moon, that our researches could be continued in the evening, almost as well as during the day.
The native place of Shakspeare is not strikingly picturesque, and the habitudes of its people reveal no distinctive character. We fancied that the urchins playing about the streets were somewhat more noisy and insubordinate, than English children are wont to be. Possibly they were striving to be like the renowned bard, in those points of character most easily imitable. His name is in almost every mouth, and you can scarcely turn a corner but what some vestige of him meets the eye. It would seem that he, who throughout life was the least ambitious, the most careless about his fame, of all distinguished men, was, by the very echo of that fame, after the lapse of centuries, to give the chief impulse to some five or six thousand persons, dwelling on the spot where he first drew breath. There are the Shakspeare relics, the Shakspeare statue, the Shakspeare Theatre, the Shakspeare Hotel, the Shakspeare bust, the Shakspeare tomb;—every body tells you of them,—every body is ready to rise, and run, and show them to the stranger. The ancient house and chamber, where he was born, are humble even to meanness. Yet walls, and ceilings, and casketed albums, are written over, and re-written, with the names of pilgrim-visitants from ​various climes,—princes, nobles, poets, philosophers, and sages.
Among the buildings which we noticed in our excursions, were some in the cottage style, tastefully adorned, and of graceful proportions. We observed a pleasant, commodious mansion, near the church where Shakspeare's dust reposes, devoted to the instruction of young ladies, and met several classes of them returning from their walk, a bright-browed and apparently happy throng. Methought the pursuit of knowledge might be sweet, amid such localities and associations.
But among the most interesting features of our visit to Stratford upon Avon were the services of the Sabbath in this same old Church. The approach to it is through a long green vista, the trees having been trained while young, to bend and interlace their branches. The Avon flows by its walls, and as we wandered on its green margin, a chime, softened by distance, was borne over its peaceful waters, with thrilling melody. A grove of young willows is planted here, and all that is picturesque in the village seems to be concentrated in this vicinity. The inroads of time upon the Church have been carefully repaired, and its interior is agreeable. It has some stately monuments, and the architecture of the chancel is beautiful. The celebrated bust of Shakspeare is near it, in a niche upon the northern wall. A cushion is before it, and the right hand holds a pen, and the left ​a scroll. The forehead is high and noble, and as the likeness was executed soon after his death, it may be supposed to convey some correct resemblance of his countenance. It was formerly in bright colors, but is now covered with a coat of white paint. Not far from it is the spot where his ashes rest, with the quaint adjuration;
"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here;
Blest be the man that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones."
Near him his wife reposes, with a Latin inscription on a small metallic tablet. On the tomb of their daughter Susannah, the wife of John Hall, who died in 1649, at the age of 66, the following epitaph was formerly legible;-
"Witty above her sex, but that's not all,
Wise to salvation, was good Mistress Hall;
Something of Shakspeare was in that, but this
Was of that Lord, with whom she's now in bliss;
Oh passenger! hast ne'er a tear
 To weep for her who wept with all?
Who wept, yet set herself to cheer
 Them up with comforts cordial?
Her love shall live, her mercy spread,
When thou hast ne'er a tear to shed."
With our feet resting almost on the very spot where the remains of the geeat poet slumber, we listened to ​the sacred services of the Church, and to three sermons, from three different clergymen. In the first we were reminded of the love of the Redeemer, from the text, "Draw us, and we will run after thee;"—in the second, of the necessity of repentance, from the warning of Ezekiel, "I have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth, saith the Lord, wherefore turn yourselves, and live ye;"—and in the last, at evening, of the duty and privilege of mental communion with the Father of our spirits, from the injunction, "Continue in prayer."
At the close of the services in the afternoon, we saw what was then to us a new scene, the distribution of bread to the poor. It is not uncommon for benevolent persons to leave legacies for this form of charity. It was touching to see what numbers pressed forward to present a ticket, and receive their share. The greater part of the recipients were aged and decrepit, or else appeared to be the parents of large families; and the eyes of many a child fixed earnestly upon the fair wheaten loaves which were dealt out, and from which it was expecting to make its evening meal. After noticing the distribution of this bounty, and hoping that in the comfort it communicated the living bread, by which the soul is nourished, might not be forgotten, we took a walk in the green and quiet church-yard. The quaint epitaphs, and the style of some of the antique tombstones, occupied our attention. There was one, of a coarse brown material, ​and with a double head, which commemorated in parallel lines, the birth and death of two females,—the singular construction and orthography of whose inscription I carefully transcribed.
"Death creeps abought on hard,
And steals abroad on seen,
Hur darts are suding and hur arows Keen,
Hur Strocks are deadly, com they soon or late,
When being Strock, Repentance is to late,
Death is a minut, full of suding sorrow,
Then Live to day, as thou may'st dy to Morrow. Anno Domony, 1690."