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THE CHURCH,

AND

SHAKESPEARE'S TOMB.

SLOWLY and solemnly we bend our way to the beautiful parish church of Stratford, with its spire rising heavenward from amidst embowering trees, and standing on the sedgy bank of the rippling Avon, where waving willows bend over the glistening stream that bathes the blue eyed forget-me-not thickly nestling there. The windows rise above the trees in proud array, and the Norman tower, with its peculiar circular belfry lights, supports the airy spire with a fine effect. Perhaps there are too many trees about the church, and the scene is almost too shadowy, but how calm and secluded, for the gossiping town is left quite behind. Dark clouds curtain round the sacred edifice, and all is momentary gloom, but the sun breaking from the moving clouds, illumines the yellow stone with saintly splendour, and then how glorious it reappears, glittering as a cloud in an amber sunset. The rays gleam upon the transept and mount up the tower, and again the edifice is involved in gloom and stillness.

Stratford Church, dedicated to the Holy Trinity, is a large structure of ancient foundation, the tower evidently exhibiting in its circular windows the Anglo-Norman style of architecture. It was judged by Dugdale to be nearly of the Conqueror's age, but it has been renovated and reconstructed at later and distinct periods. With its nave, transepts, chancel, tower, and spire, it forms a noble whole, while its construction in the yellow oolitic stone, gives it a beautiful and enduring aspect often wanting in more extensive buildings. The windows in the clerestory of the nave, twelve in number on either side, and those of the chancel, rebuilt by Dr. Balshall, warden of the then existing College, in the reign of Edward IV., are very beautiful, and filled with graceful tracery-those in the chancel once glowing with stained glass. The transept is said to have been restored by the executors of Sir Hugh Clopton, in the reign of Henry VII. Originally the spire was of wood and lead, and lower than it is at present, but being decayed, it was taken down in 1763, when the present stone spire was erected. The height of the tower and spire is 163 feet.

A curious thickly arched avenue of lime trees conducts to the entrance of the sacred place, where we pause for a moment in the vaulted porch-for we may not enter with unseemly haste, and the thick door with its lesser portal is evidently not of modern date. As we progress up the nave, we perceive that the hand of discriminating taste has been at work, for its whole interior, and the chancel also, has been recently care

fully restored, and the carved timber roofs renewed. That of the chancel is exceedingly good, supported by angel figures, and adorned with the emblazoned arms of the various benefactors who subscribed to the work. In the nave, whatever was ugly and inappropriate has been removed, open seats substituted, and a handsome and uniform reading desk and pulpit of carved stone set up. The nave is divided from the aisles by hexagonal pillars supporting six early-English pointed arches, and above this is the clerestory, forming a continued range of windows, two above each arch, admitting almost an excess of light. The clerestory windows are of much later date than the body of the church, and seem to be of the period of Henry VII., though there is no actual record respecting them. Perhaps Sir Hugh Clopton may have contributed to their erection. His executors are mentioned to have repaired the transepts, but the transepts themselves are of earlier date. The windows of the aisles belong to the fourteenth century, the south aisle being erected by John de Stratford at that period; the north aisle is probably of earlier date.

The chancel or choir is the most remarkable part of the fabric, and from its height and simplicity has a beautiful effect. Five elegantly shaped windows rise to the roof on either side, while above the altar is a lofty east window, once brilliant with stained glass, of which, until recently, a few imperfect and jumbled relics only could be seen. The pristine glory of this noble window is now, however, through the pious ex

ertions of our estimable vicar, being gradually restored. A receptacle for the offerings of the devotees at the shrine of Shakespeare may be found within the chancel, into which we trust no true pilgrim will fail to cast his mite, and thus assist the worthy man in the accomplishment of his noble object. The timber roof, which, neglected, plastered, and covered up, had fallen into remediless decay, has been now restored, and solemnizes the whole scene, with its characteristic canopy. On either side the old seats or stalls used by the collegiate choir still remain, and the grotesque carvings on the lower part of each seat are very perfect. The altar and reredoss, now renewed, appear within the rails, where glazed tiles cover the floor.

The reparations which at a very considerable expense have been accomplished under the care of an energetic committee, merit the warm approbation of the spectator. The undertaking originated in a suggestion made by Dr. Conolly, at a meeting of the Shakespearean Club, in 1834, and the remains of the Great Bard of Nature now repose in a 66 solemn temple" that none can thread without awful and exciting sensations, free from that disgust and vexation attendant upon the view of a neglected and dingy edifice.

Thoughtfully pacing up the central aisle of the nave, we stand under the arches supporting the tower, and the chancel with its rich roof and lofty windows opens before our view. There, against the northern wall, is

THE TOMB OF SHAKESPEARE,

and his monumental bust. His undisturbed ashes rest in peace, as he wished them, under the pavement below. We silently approach the hallowed spot, and forgetting for a moment aught else-encaustic pavement, glittering altar, emblazoned arms, sedilia, stalls, and modern tombs-contemplate with thoughtful interest that placid countenance and lofty brow. Supposing the likeness authentic, and it is affirmed that his friends thought it so, we would, if possible, neglect the epitaph and converse with the man. There is the bust representing a man of about fifty, with bald head, trodden bare by thought and excitement, yet apparently gentle in deportment, and humorous, yet melancholy-such is our impression as if wit was shrouded, ready to break forth from pensive sorrow. May there be truth in this?—The great painter of humanity hath himself said of one of his characters

"I have heard my daughter say,

She hath often dreamed of unhappiness, and waked
Herself with laughing."

The wittiest have been at times often the saddest, and the wit for which Shakespeare was celebrated may have sometimes broken from a couch of sadness. Who could depict the melancholy Jacques who had not himself felt a touch of melancholy? Yet a line of sensuality appears in the lower part of the countenance, as if its possessor indulged occasionally; and Shakespeare was

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