Stratford Impressions

It is the everlasting glory of Stratford-upon-Avon that it was the birthplace of Shakespeare. Situated in the heart of beautiful Warwickshire, it nestles cosily in an atmosphere of tranquil loveliness, and it is surrounded by everything that gentle rural scenery can provide to soothe the mind and to nurture contentment. It stands upon a plain, almost in the center of England, through which, between low green hills that roll away on either side, the Avon flows, in many capricious windings, to the Severn, and so to the sea.

The golden glory of the setting sun burns on the gray spire of Stratford church, and on the ancient graveyard below,—wherein the mossy stones lean this way and that, in sweet and orderly confusion,—and on the peaceful avenue of limes, and on the burnished water of silver Avon. The tall, pointed, many-colored windows of the church glint in the evening light. A cool, fragrant wind is stirring the branches and the grass. The songbirds, calling to their mates or sporting in the wanton pleasure of their airy life, are circling over the church roof or hiding in little crevices of its walls. On the vacant meadows across the river stretch away the long, level shadows of the stately elms.

It is an accepted tradition in Stratford-upon-Avon that the bell of the Guild Chapel was tolled on the occasion of the death and also of the funeral of Shakespeare.

From “Shakespeare’s England,” by William Winter