are capable to the memory of him whose works Mr. Carlyle declares to be of more value to us and to the world than is our Eastern Empire. Thus these rude pencil-marks, these signs of the cacoethes scribendi, usually so disgusting, and generally to be deprecated, became in this instance, and in this place, testimonies of the extraordinary power of him who could throw around us such a charm, as to make the house in which he was born a shrine for evermore. It is now unnecessary to record your visit on the wall; for a book has been provided for that purpose; and when we inserted our names therein, we had on the same morning been preceded by two of our far-away brethren from America, who had been making their pilgrimage to England's Mecca.

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There is something much more annoying than writing names on the walls. The room which is honoured as the room of his birth, is turned into a shop for the sale of books and pictures relating to Shakspere and the places associated with his name. This is too bad. Why should money-getting be introduced even here? Imagine any one sitting in the room, and endeavouring to picture the childhood of the poet, perpetually assailed with, "This is a picture of the interior of the room, this of the house, this of the church in which he was buried, this of the Shottery where Anne Hathaway lived; there are seven to the set, and sold at fourpence each, or halfa-crown the set." Yet this was what we had to endure while we were endeavouring to recall passages from the poet's works which might be deemed to

throw some light upon his early life, and give a living interest to the consecrated place in which we were standing. With such accompaniments this was all but impossible, and with a scarcely suppressed anathema on this abominable custom we left the room.

From his birth-place we passed on to the other great link in our associations with Shakspere-his tomb. Stratford Church is a fine old building, beautifully situated, with the Avon flowing close beside its lovely burying-ground. You walk to the churchporch under a grateful colonnade of linden trees, which form a fitting entrance to the final restingplace of him who was so intimate with nature, and loved it so well. The grave is in front of the communion, and is indicated by a flat stone, on which is cut the world-known epitaph. The famous bust looks down upon the grave-stone; and we never felt the force and significance of the lines before we read them standing there, watched and enforced as they seemed by his spirit whose bones they were intended to protect. They run thus :

"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear

To dig the dust enclosed here;

Blest be the man that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones."

On the side of the wall, looking down upon this inscription, is the monument on which rests the bust of Shakspere. From a careful examination of the work, Chantrey believed that it must have been taken from a cast made from his face after death. However this may be, who, gazing on that towering forehead,

that large-globed eye, those fine and expressive lips, could ever doubt the exactness with which the poet's lineaments have been preserved? Originally the bust was painted; the beard and hair were auburn, the eyes hazel; the dress was a scarlet doublet, with a loose black gown without sleeves over it. It continued thus for one hundred and sixty years; when, not being preserved by the blessing and curse which have preserved the sacred dust and bones, Malone, the Shaksperean commentator, painted it white. By this act of shameless Vandalism, the bust has lost much of the charm of a complete and life-like likeness, which these adjuncts must have given it. Judging by our own feelings, we should say that Malone's name has been frequently pronounced in Stratford with anything but respect and reverence. We contented ourselves with repeating

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Stranger, to whom this monument is shown,
Invoke the poet's curses on Malone;

Whose meddling zeal his barbarous taste displays,
And daubs his tombstone as he marr'd his plays."

The tomb bears the inscription, "Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem."

Next to the tomb of the poet is that of his favourite daughter, Mrs. Hall. The inscription is quaint, and illustrative of the age. There is reason to believe that the inscription is literally true; and if so, she must have inherited somewhat of her father's endowments. To her he bequeathed the largest part of his property, which, in houses, lands, plate, and jewels, must in

those days have been a handsome fortune. The epitaph is worthy of transcription :

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'Witty above her sex ; but that 's not all,
Wise to salvation was good Mistress Hall.
Something of Shakspere was in that, but this
Wholly from Him with whom she's now in bliss.
Then, passenger, hast ne'er a tear

To weep with her that wept with all;
That wept, yet set herself to cheer

Them up with comfort's cordial ?
Her love shall live, her mercy spread,

When thou hast ne'er a tear to shed.

Here now they sleep side by side, loving father and loving daughter. And what a large and loving heart his must have been! Mrs. Stowe well remarks about Shakspere, "We may also infer something of a man's character from the tone and sentiments of others towards him. Glass of a certain colour casts on surrounding objects a reflection of its own hue; and so the tint of a man's character returns upon us in the habitual manner in which he is spoken of by those around him. The common mode of speaking of Shakspere always savoured of endearment. 'Gentle Will' is an expression that seemed oftenest repeated. Ben Jonson inscribed his funeral verses, 'To the memory of my beloved Mr. William Shakspere.' He calls him the sweet swan of Avon.' Again, in his lines under a bust of Shakspere, he says:—

'The figure that thou here seest put,

It was for gentle Shakspere cut.'

In later times Milton, who could have known him

only by tradition, calls him 'my Shakspere,' 'dear son of memory,' and 'sweetest Shakspere.' Now nobody ever wrote of sweet John Milton, or gentle John Milton, or gentle Martin Luther, or even sweet Ben Jonson. Rowe says of Shakspere, 'The latter part of his life was spent as all men of good sense would wish theirs may be,—in ease, retirement, and the conversation of his friends. His pleasurable wit and good nature engaged him in the acquaintance, and entitled him to the friendship, of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood.' And Dr. Drake says, 'He was high in reputation as a poet, favoured by the great and the accomplished, and beloved by all who knew him."

And how lovingly he always writes of flowers and children! His heart, overflowing with the milk of human kindness, found a rich pleasure in the company of those innocents of the earth. No poet has said more beautiful things about flowers than he. In the meadows and fields surrounding his native town he must often have held loving talk with his "daisies pied," his "ladies'-smocks all silver white," with cowslips "cinque-spotted," with "daffodils that come before the swallow dares," with "pale primroses, that die unmarried, ere they can behold bright Phœbus in his strength;" in a word, with all the flowers so abundant in his native county. Of his love for children we will let Mr. J. R. Wise speak. In his genial little book, "Shakspere and his Birthplace," he writes on this subject: "Let me now also notice what may appear slight and trivial to some-Shak

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