Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 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 any thing 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.
I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, but I
had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys, at Charlecot,
and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare, in company with
some of the roysterers of Stratford, committed his youthful offence of
deer-stealing.
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