pleasure; for although the railway to the place of the poet's birth is now completed and open, it must be an imperative duty indeed, that compelled us to use it, and so lose the ramble from Warwick.

But we are now at Stratford, and are gazing, hat in hand, on the house which a board informs us was the birth-place of the "Immortal Bard." We suppose every one must experience different feelings and sensations on his first visit to this house, the house in which was born England's most wonderful son. Ours were solemn indeed, as we crossed the threshold, and sat in a chair in the lower room of the poet's early home. Here, in reverential silence, we endeavoured to realize the fact that he-the world's richest inheritance, the universal poet, the man of all times and of all ages-had lived in this house, had sat in this wide old-fashioned-chimney corner, had trod on these now much-broken floor-stones, had entered at this lowly door, had sat side by side with "sweet Anne Hathaway;" had lived here, his mother's pride, his father's hope; that, after a foolish act of deer-stalking, he had quitted his native town, and sought his future in the great metropolis; and there been play actor, play writer, and, in the course of time, theatre proprietor; and finally returned to his beloved Stratford, to wander once again along the banks of his sweetly-flowing river, where in lovertime he had rambled with the bride of his youth. Here, a well-to-do man, he had lived, and written some of his finest dramas; and here, dying, had left the world such a legacy as no other man before him had

been richly enough endowed to do. All this we sought to realize seated here; but it was only an indistinct and obscure picture; for the imagination was too much excited to make up a clear and connected whole.

The family of the Shaksperes! Has the visitor to this spirit-haunted shrine ever sought to fill it with the beings who once made it a home. A Frenchman has endeavoured to "reconstruct" the old dwelling, and fill it with its old inmates. The young and enthusiastic François Victor Hugo, in the introduction to his translation of the Two Hamlets, has thus re-animated the past: and drawn the picture of a family gathering at the Shakspere house in Stratfordon-Avon. The loving translator is quite familiar with the whole family. The poet is called by the diminutive of his Christian name; he sits at the fireside and has a chat with "Will," knows the father John, and Gilbert, and Richard, and Edmund his brothers; and Jane his sister, and Anne his wife. The whole household and its habits are familiar to this young Frenchman; and this is how, according to him, the author of Hamlet first heard the history which, in the course of time, was destined to be the groundwork of one of the greatest, if not the very greatest work of genius.

The "colporteur" has been paying remote Stratford a visit; and "Will," always eagerly seeking knowledge, has purchased a book; and—but we must now translate literally the rest of this curious picture of the Shakspere household. "The appearance of a

new book would be an event in the house of Shakspere, in the midst of this monotonous provincial existence, where emotions are so rare. The reading was announced beforehand; it would take place at night, the family present; for during the day every one was employed, and Will helped in the shop. At night, then, all the family are assembled in the same room, before the same log, by the light of the same candle; for it is necessary to economize. All the seats were put into requisition, and placed as near as possible to the hearth; for the winter was severe, and it was already cold. Do you see them here, all the members of this august family, ranged in a circle round the dreary fire? On the right of the chimney, that grey-haired man, who is seated in the high chair, is the father of William, Master John Shakspere, butcher, currier, glover, and woolmerchant of his time, formerly elected by his fellowcitizens bailiff of the good town of Stratford. In front, by him, on the left of the chimney, in the only arm-chair in the house, that respectable matron who knits is the mother of William, Mistress Shakspere, whose maiden name is Mary Arden, and descends from a valet of King Henry VII., if it pleases you. By her side, upon that low chair, that young woman who suckles a child is William's wife, Miss Anne Hathaway, a farmer's daughter of Shottery, a humble village in the neighbourhood. Near to her, on that stool, that very young man with lofty forehead, with aquiline nose, with sparkling eyes, that is he!he, the still unknown author of Othello and of

Macbeth!-he, the future prince of poets-William Shakspere! Finally, on that bench which touches the father's chair, that youth of seventeen years is Gilbert, William's younger brother. And where are the rest? Will has also a little sister and two little brothers. Where is Jane? where is Richard? where is Edmund ?-where are these children hidden? Ah, well! look with attention; you will find them under the same chimney, squatted in the two niches cut to the right and left of the fire-place.

"Thus the re-union is complete; the door is well shut, the window well closed. There is nothing to delay the beginning of the reading. The reading should be done in a low voice, and Gilbert is to read; for Gilbert has a great taste for declamation, and a great desire to be a player. The little ones are cautioned to be good, and not to make a noise. Gilbert takes the book that Will has just bought; it is a collection of tragical histories, translated from the French. Among these histories, all written by the famous chronicler Belleforest, Gilbert has only to choose. He opens the volume at hazard, and reads with a solemn accent

THE FIFTH HISTORY.

WITH what stratagem Amleth, who was formerly King of Denmark, avenged the death of his father Hoswendilla, murdered by Fengora, his brother, and other occurrences of his history."

Having, with the aid of the facile Frenchman,

peopled the house once more, we ascended the stairs leading to the room in which it is said the poet was born. We were at first somewhat annoyed at seeing the sides and the ceiling covered over with the names of visitors. Thousands upon thousands have thus left a record of their visit to this world-honoured house. The first feeling at seeing these records was one of indignation. To think every piece of vulgar obscurity must obtrude his or her name before men's eyes in such a place! So far had our heat found vent, when it was checked by the thought that all these names, however humble, obscure, and unknown their owners might be, were but the indications of the power which genius still holds over the heart of the world, and how thoroughly the great power of his spirit whose body once here has glorified this house for ever, had fermented, possessed, and influenced the hearts of men. Thus these otherwise miserable scribblings became, in some sort, a measure of the wondrous fame of him to whose memory they are a silent tribute of love, esteem, and veneration. Not one of these names-names some of them dear to the world, and known to fame; most of them utterly obscure-but testifies to the universality of hero worship, and to the fact, that men will venerate what is truly venerable. Here at the shrine of poetry the pilgrims from the east and the west, from the north and the south-across the waters of the Atlanticfrom all parts and all places, the obscurest hamlet and the most renowned capital-come and offer by their mere presence the highest homage of which their natures