THOU soft-flowing Avon，by thy silver stream
Of things more than mortal，sweet Shakespeare would dream；The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed，For hallow‘d the turf is which pillows his head.
1.To a homeless man，who has no spot on this wide world which he can truly call his own，there is a momentary feeling of something like independence and territorial consequence，when after a weary day’s travel，he kicks off his boots，thrusts his feet into slippers，and stretches himself before an inn fire.Let the world without go as it may；let kingdoms rise or fall，so long as he has wherewithal to pay his bill，he is，for the time being，the very monarch of all he surveys.The arm-chair is his throne，the poker his scepter，and the little parlor，some twelve feet square，his undisputed empire.It is a morsel of certainty，snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of life；it is a sunny moment，gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day，and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence，knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment.“Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn？”thought I，as I gave the fire a stir，lolled back in my elbow-chair，and cast a complacent look about the little parlor of the Red Horse at Stratford-on-Avon.
2.The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through my mind，as the clock struck midnight，from the tower of the churchin which he lies buried.There was a gentle tap at the door，and a pretty chamber-maid，putting in her smiling face，inquired，with a hesitating air，whether I had rung.I understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire.My dream of absolute dominion was at an end；so，abdicating my throne，like a prudent potentate，to avoid being deposed，and putting the Stratford Guide Book under my arm，as a pillow companion，I went to bed，and dreamed all night of Shakespeare，the jubilee，and David Garrick.
3.The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we have in early spring；for it was about the middle of March.The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way；the north wind had spent its last gasp；and a mild air came stealing from the west，breathing the breath of life into nature，and moving every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty.
4.I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage.My first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born，and where，accordingShakespeare‘s Birthplace in Stratford Upon Avonto tradition，he was brought up to his father’s craft of wool-combing.It is a small，mean-looking edifice of wood and plaster，a true nestling-place of genius，which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners.The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names and inions，in every language，by pilgrims of all nations，ranks，and conditions，from the prince to the peasant，and present a simple，but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature.
5.The house is shown by a garrulous old lady，in a frosty red face，lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye，and garnished with artificial locks of flaxen hair，curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap.She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this，like all other celebrated shrines，abounds.There was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which Shakespeare shot the deer，on his poaching exploits.There，too，was his tobacco-box，which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh；the sword，also，with which he played Hamlet；and the identical lantern with which Friar Lawrence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb！There was an ample supply also of Shakespeare‘s mulberry tree.
6.From the birth-place of Shakespeare a few paces brought me to his grave.He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church，a large and venerable pile，moldering 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 churchyard，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 inter-laced，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 gray tombstones，some of then nearly sunk into the earth，are half covered with moss，which has likewise tinted the reverend old building.
