From Artemus Ward in London, 1876.

“And this,” I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at Stratford, beside a Tombstone, “this marks the spot where lies William W. Shakspeare. Alars! and this is the spot where—”

“You’ve got the wrong grave,” said a man—a worthy villager: “Shakspeare is buried inside the church.”

“Oh,” I said, “a boy told me this was it.” The boy larfed and put the shillin I’d given him onto his left eye in a inglorious manner, and commenced moving backwards towards the street.

I pursood and captered him, and after talking to him a spell in a skarcastic stile, I let him went.