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bridge. We entered and passed through the , it quietly reposes on the margin of its classic gates of Warwick-for that remarkable city river, with its noble church spire piercing the has two gates of entrance and departure, but sky. Its four thousand inhabitants, like those no walls. We must not detain the reader at of all towns thronged by genteel visiters, have Warwick, because we may make a special pil- more than an average share of civility of mangrimage to it for his benefit-provided always, ners, and sharpness in a bargain. Its chief we ever fairly bring him to and from Stratford- glory is its giving birth to Shakespeare;-its on-Avon. Leaving Warwick, we had nothing chief treasures, his natal mansion and his to interrupt the full impression of the rural sepulchre. Though it rests beautifully in the beauty around us. All along we luxuriated in vale of the Avon, and unites the venerableness the vision of the velvet, deep green lawn, pecu- of age with something of the neatness and liar to the British Isles; the well-trimmed briskness of a modern village, -yet separate hedges chequering the fields, and clustering the great name of Shakespeare from it, and no with flowers and autumnal fruits; the elms, one would think it worth a paragraph. The rich in drapery, so thickly planted as to seem citizens feel this. Boys meet you in advance forest-like, yet opening here and there to reveal with the inquiry, “Will you see the house ?rich pastures, on which cattle and sheep of “Shall I show you to the church ?”-assuming unsurpassed beauty and thrift were grazing ; that all travellers are pilgrims to the shrine of the road, nicely graded and white with pul- Genius. For this impression they have abunverized rock, making a line of silver over hill | dant reason. While to them the birthplace and dale, before and behind us; the Avon and and grave of Shakespeare are commonplace its little tributaries, now hidden by hills, now things, they see strangers, without distinction indicated only by the livelier green and richer of nation, rank, or sex, possessed by a comshrubbery fringing their border — and now mon enthusiasm on this classic ground. Kings, glancing out, like mirrors, to reflect a summer Queens, Princes, Nobles, Hierarchs, Statesmen, sun; cottages frequent, always of stone, white- Philosophers, Poets, and Theologians, here bow washed and embowered with green; here and with profound reverence before the majesty of there an aristocratic mansion, like its owner, the great creative intellect which has thrown recluse and unapproachable, but sublime in its its scintillations broadcast over the earth. Nor solitude and frowning magnificence;—this is is their interest more intense, nor their devoEnglish scenery, and it is found nowhere else tion more sincere than that of tradesmen, but in Old England. In jaunting amid such mechanics, and rustic labourers, who mingle scenes, our young dreams of the Fatherland gratitude with their admiration of one who, are realized; and to an Anglo-American tra- | rising from their own level, beat down all acciveller, romance is made reality.

dental distinctions in his way to greatness, and In England, it would seem that almost every retained, in the eye of the world, the simple road is a turnpike. While John Bull thus levels habits, the love of nature and of man, which mountains and elevates valleys to make smooth he bore from his native village. paths for his subjects, it will readily be believed Milton, Pope, Dryden, Cowper, Scott, Wordsthat he does not spare their pockets. But if worth, Coleridge, Southey, Moore, and Byron, turnpike gates occur with marvellous frequency have each roused an enthusiastic admiration, in his dominions, they are not such outlandish and had devoted worshippers. But world-wide bars and posts as we meet in the United States. and enduring as the influence of each has been The English enjoy the enduring public works of and is, it has been limited to certain classes. past centuries, and when they build, they build It has given rise to poetic schools and cliques, for centuries to come. An English turnpike gate and elicited literary affinities and antipathies. is a graceful and massive structure, refreshing Each has been worshipped and hated—adored to the eye of taste, if not to the vision of ava- and despised, according to the mental strucrice. Its neat cottage, too, around whose doorsture, education, taste, and character of those and windows ivy creeps and flowers nestle; its who have sat in judgment. Not so with Shakegarden with its miniature subdivisions marked speare. Trained at the feet of no literary or by clipped box; and, above all, its keeper, a poetic Gamaliel, he had no master to imitate ; little inflated, as all English, high or low, are and writing with no ambition or expectation of with office;but not, like the servants of the fame, he stretched himself to the “iron bed” nobility, having the arrogance of rank without of no clique, class, or faction. His percepits courtesy

tion of “what was in man," seemed to be almost But I will now bring the reader through intuitive, and has never been surpassed on these turnpike gates, which have so impeded earth, save by Him, the Infinite—with whom his progress. An hour and a half of pleasant to compare the finite, would be irreverent pretravelling brought us to the sight of Stratford- sumption. A poet by nature, and great by on-Avon. It is a beautiful town in prospect, as endowment rather than human instruction, he bowed to no earthly authority—but, like a of a city in Iowa or Wisconsin; and though it spirit of another world, above human partiali- may give a prosaic chill to the poetic admirers ties, wrote not for a class, but a race. When of the great Bard, the truth must out, that the the nature of the subject allowed it, he diverges house where Shakespeare was born is a meatfrom the strict claims of the matter in hand, shop! If any consolation is available for this, to utter grand moral principles, which have it may be found in rejoicing that it is no worse. been made the proverbs of moralists and mer- I entered the house at Ayr, where Robert Burns chants, of statesmen and soldiers, of poets and drew his first breath, and found it a dram-shop! ploughmen. The fact that his eye penetrated-filled with those who resembled “Scotia’s every strata of society—that he felt the uni- sweetest bard” only in the habit which injured versal pulse of human passion and enriched his character and happiness, health and life. universal human nature, accounts for the com- The only other room on the ground floor of the mon affection and enthusiasm with which he is Shakespeare house, is used as a kitchen for regarded. He not only is not the property of the widow and daughter who claimed propriea class, but no nation nor age can claim him. torship of the mansion. The back chamber, His memory is the treasure of his race. If it on what we call the second floor, and Englishbe suggested that his writings are exception- men the first floor, was the dormitory. The able in reverence for sacred names, and often front chamber of this story—the Shakespeare indelicate—it is only saying that he adapted birthplace, specifically—is the family parlour. himself to the object he had in view, and to Since the Poet's time, it has passed through the standard morality and taste of his age. In many hands. Of its original furniture nothing his period, a dramatist would feel himself justi- remains—though its place has been supplied fied in adopting for the stage expressions not with articles of like age. A visiter is amazed then deemed improper for the lips of bishops at the lowness of ceiling, which allows men and queens. We must hold him responsible for of ordinary stature to reach and write their the taste of his own times, not ours—and may names on it. The room never had any paper; well marvel, that one who wrote professedly but this was fortunate—as it has given thouonly for the amusement of mankind, strewed sands an opportunity to aspire to immortality, the path of pleasure with gems of sober and by there inscribing their names. Above, around, enduring truth.

all over, every inch is covered with autographs But enough of digression. We have not yet of visiters. You may be sure the Yankees are reached Stratford-on-Avon. Indeed, we are in fairly represented. It is amusing to see, indidanger of imitating the New York Dutchman, cated by various tricks of chirography, an so facetiously described by Washington Irving, effort to make a name “stand out from the who ran a long way to get an impulse to leap mass.” Our cicerone seemed to regard the a wall, but when he reached it was out of great majority as an incumbrance, but she breath, and crawled over it.

took much pride in pointing to some royal sigOn arriving at Stratford, we were driven at natures. This place must be a paradise to once to the house where Shakespeare was born, autograph hunters. and having alighted, and ordered the carriage The Album is an old book, “ tattered and to the “ Red Horse Hotel,took a survey of the torn," but still legible. It has many impremises. It is the only ancient house in its promptu effusions, among which that of Washblock. All the others are modern erections, ington Irving is regarded as the best, not only towering above it, and rendering its antique from its originality, but because it is richly peculiarity more striking. It is two stories in spiced with the laudation so grateful to English height, and low at that. In its erection, like ears. It is free from a vice most prominent in some ancient houses among our early Germans, many of these effusions, an effort to magnify a frame was first put up, and then filled in one's self while professing to laud Shakewith stone and mortar-still leaving the timber speare. visible, like a rough mosaic. Its windows are It is said that the earthly immortality of venerably small—but the panes of glass redeem those who have inscribed their autographs on in number what they lack in size, so that some these walls, was once put in fearful jeopardy. light actually enters the interstices of the huge A female tenant who had long enjoyed the prosash. The lower window, by the side of the fits of this show-room, unwilling to pay an indoor, is without sash or glass, but longitudinal creased rent, was warned to leave the premises. in its position, and furnished with a trap-door She devised a right feminine but most Vandal opening outward, on which a butcher exhibits scheme of vengeance. Having hired another his meat on market days. If the expression house, to which she conveyed the Album, and be not Hibernian, I would say that the lower all the Shakespeare relics, she next took a rooms are floored with stone—which is about brush, and if not " at one fell swoop," by reas even and beautiful as the first stone paving 'peated appliances covered the whole with a

coat of whitewash! Those victimized by this , introducing his malicious outrage to the attenebullition of feminine anger, might well say, tion of our readers.

While the world was execrating the demoli* Absurd to think to overreach the [brush),

tion of the New House, no doubt, if the truth And from the wreck of names to rescue ours."

were known, the owner of the old house (the They passed away

birthplace) secretly congratulated himself that

its rivalry was ended. As an illustration “ Like the baseless fabric of a vision,

of the increasing wealth of the times, and of Leaving no (scratch] behind.”

augmented regard for the great poet, the old

house, which had once been sold for £250, is What her successor said on first entering the now held at £4000. Our cicerone, the daughdenuded and blank apartment, history does not ter of the owner, told us that at the death of tell us ; perhaps because none but the great her mother, it was to be sold, and she hoped to Bard himself could depict her rage. But thanks get £4000 for it. Her mother has since died, to the progress of science, some Oxonian, or and the daughter has disposed of it to an assosomebody else, gave her a chemical solvent, ciation of contributors, who, to prevent its dewhich removed the villanous lime, and released molition or decay, united to purchase it. It is the imprisoned names of these Shakespearian now beyond the reach of private cupidity or martyrs from their temporary eclipse.

caprice, in the custody of the friends of litera

ture. The world owes to this association its * I tell the tale as 'twas told to me!”

gratitude. May the Old House stand a thou

sand years! This house formerly had a great rival. It is

Our next pilgrimage was to the school-house known when Shakespeare returned from London, in the height of his fume, and moderately is a large apartment with a low ceiling, mise

where Shakespeare received his education. It rich, he fitted for his residence a large and beautiful edifice, in which to spend the remain rably lighted, and worse ventilated. It is paved

with stone laid on the bare earth. Its benches der of life. This, in contrast with the old man

or forms are of the rudest construction, and sion, was called the New House. As this was

would be by no means out of place in a western the chosen abode of the dramatist, and bore in all its internal and external arrangements and


About thirty right English

boys were present, with their demure looks and decorations, the impress of his mature taste; as here he held intercourse with the wits of his cherry cheeks, who tried experiments on optics

in our presence, to see if they could seem to day, and the troops of friends whom his genius and fame had attracted ; as here he lived and study their books, while in reality they watched here had died, this house was justly the pride the fact that to this humble place Shakespeare

The place derives its main interest from of his native village and the shrine of his admiring countrymen. In process of time it became the Manse—the property of the incum

“ The whining schoolboy,

With his satchel and shining morning face, bent rector. He quarrelled with the inhabi

Creeping like snail unwillingly to school.” tants of the village, and on removing from town, in order to mortify his old parishioners, After what I have said of the place, his “ undeliberately tore down, utterly demolished willingness" is not surprising. and annihilated Shakespeare's New House. Our next visit was to the church, in the Pity that some one had not suggested to the chancel of which the Poet was buried. This wrathful and revengeful parson, the old admo- edifice is a Gothic structure, of great magninition of sacred writ: “Rend your heart and tude and beauty, surrounded by a large yard, not your garments, !--nor your house! But no studded with graves and monuments. considerations of his sacred profession; no proached by an avenue, about thirty rods in desire to perpetuate the mind of Shakespeare, length, of lime trees, which have been bent, as he had inscribed it in the plan and orna- clipped, and trained, until they form a perfect ments of his dwelling; no reverence for objects arch, with a green and rustling but well-defined enshrined in the hearts of his countrymen; no roof, about three feet in thickness. We have fear of the curses of future generations, re- nothing like it in the United States. Forming strained his ruthless hand. Over all, his wrath a sweep around the churchyard, is the Avon, triumphed. " Hoc censeo domum, esse delen- to whose edge it extends. The bank, about fifdum,” was his word, and the house was de- teen feet high, is protected by a perpendicular molished. Like Eratostratus, Jack Ketch, Guy wall, which rises about two feet above the level Pawkes, and Judas Iscariot, he has made him of the yard, forming a most charming terrace self to be remembered. Perhaps this was his in the interior, from which the whole vale for a object, and if so, we have aided his purpose by great distance, up and down the stream, is




It is ap




brought under the eye. This terrace is the glorious fame which would invest his bones most charming spot in Stratford. Here, seated with interest, it matters not, he had caused to be on the wide wall-our feet hanging over the inscribed on the flat stone which covers his ashes stream, the old church lending its shade,-ou

,—our the following couplet, transcribed verbatim : lady friends opened their treasures, and re

* Good Friend, for JESV8 sake forbeare galed us with sandwiches. This is character

To digg T-E dvst EncloAsed HERE istic. An American party would have bespoken

Blest be T-E Man I Spares T-hs Stones, a good dinner at the Red Horse.” The English of the highest rank are economists on the

And cvrst be He moves my bones." road. And besides this, their solitary, exclu

The poet's curse, his townsmen averred, sive, and fastidious modes, make them reluctant to mingle with the crowd in hotels. At the would light upon them, if they suffered his hazard of being thought deficient in Shake- bones to be removed, even to Westminster spearian enthusiasm, I must say our sandwiches Abbey. The Londoners had with them, perhad a fine relish. Our hospitable friends, per- Poet'rest but with England's mightiest dead ?

haps, the argument. Where should the great haps, were mindful that

But the Stratfordians had possession and inte“ You take my life, when you do take

rest, and force to retain it. For once, the The means whereby I live."

great Metropolis had to surrender. All the inHence they were careful to provide “visible fluence of aristocracy, wealth, great names, means of support” for the excursion.

and even good intentions, were powerless, beThe old church is the very one where Shake- fore an aroused rustic community, determined speare worshipped. The old Bible, formerly to resist, if need be, by force. The plan was attached by a chain to the reading desk, that abandoned; but one influence of that discussion parishioners, having none of their own, might still remains. The rustic population are afraid read, but not abstract it, is still kept, chain to put their feet on the tombstone, lest they and all, in the vestry. Its chain indicates a

should incur the malediction of disturbing their period when the sacred volume was inaccessi- Poet's bones. They will thus protect his ble to those who have the most need of its con- epitaph, which had become almost illegible. solations; and it illustrates the blessedness of This is as it should be. The village to which the press, and those associations which have Providence gave the birth of Shakespeare, and unchained the Bible, and made Heaven's truth

to which his own simple affections led him back as free and universal as Heaven's air.

in the prime of manhood, to find a home, rest, The monument of Shakespeare, attached to and a grave, has a right to retain his ashes. the wall, is an object so beautiful and unique,

But I may not protract this article. We rethat I desire to give to others the pleasure mained at Stratford until late in the afternoon; which it afforded me, and therefore have fur- and as the lengthened shadows began to throw nished a drawing of it to the reader. (See page a pensiveness over the landscape, returned 341.)

leisurely to Leamington. The sole alloy to my His dust is covered by a single flat stone in recollection of that day, is in the fact that the the chancel. An effort was once made to re-only Americans whom I met at Stratford, were move his bones to Westminster Abbey. Never the Rev. Dr. Hopkins, of Buffalo, N. Y., and his was a town in such an uproar. The abstrac- lady. My friends invited them to spend the tion of the sacred relics from St. Peter's in evening with us at Leamington, and it passed Rome would agitate less the good Catholics of pleasantly away. I saw them, full of hope, the Eternal City. The proposition outraged at leave in the morning by coach, for Blenheim once the romance, ambition, poetic veneration, and Oxford. And I shall see them no more! and avarice of all classes. The clergy preached Mrs. H. died on the homeward passage, and against it as a sacrilege; the lawyers declared her husband also now sleeps in death. it illegal; the hotel-keepers, hack-drivers, and My recollections of Stratford-on-Avon are porters, the shopmen and milliners, if they mingled with musings of sadness, that two of could not make a show of argument, disclosed those who shared with me in its excitementsa disposition to guard the grave of their great and who united with an admiration of genius townsman by show of physical force-of clubs and poetry, the holiest purposes and most and fists. Whatever secret influence might afluent charity, have passed from a world have slept under the surface, prompting a zeal which they longed and laboured to bless. With like that which protected “Diana of the Ephe- the exception of a reminiscence so painful, I sians,” the great argument was that Shakespeare recall my excursion to Stratford-on-Avon with himself had forbidden it. Whether he distrusted the liveliest pleasure. May I hope that I have his neighbours, who had exiled him in youth shared in a slight degree this pleasure with for deer-stealing, or whether he dreamed of a

my readers ?



(Suggested by the beautiful picture of Spring in the April Number of Sartain.)


THE trumpet winds have sounded a retreat,

Blowing o'er land and sea sullen strain;

Usurping March, defeated, flies again, And lays his trophies at the Winter's feet! And lo!-where April coming in his turn,

In changeful motleys, half of light and shade, Leads his belated charge, a delicate maid,

A nymph with dripping urn!

Where March encamped his stormy legions wide,
And shook his standards o'er the fields of Day!
But now the sky is blue, the snow is flown,
And every mountain is an emerald throne,
And every cloud a dais fringed with light,
And all below is beautiful and bright!
The forest waves its plume-the hedges blow,

The south wind scuds along the meadowy sea Thick-flecked with daisied foam,-and violets grow

Blue-eyed, and cowslips star the bloomy lea; The skylark floods the scene with pleasant rime;

The ousel twitters in the swaying pine; And wild bees hum about the beds of thyme,

And bend the clover bells and eglantine; The snake casts off his skin in mossy nooks;

The long-eared rabbits near their burrows play; The dormouse wakes, and see! the noisy tooks

Sly foraging, about the stacks of hay!


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Hail! hail! thrice hail!--thou fairest child of Time,

With all thy retinue of laughing Hours,
Sweet paragon from some diviner clime,

Soft ininistrant of its benignest Powers,
Who hath not caught the glancing of thy wing,
And peeped beneath thy mask, delicious Spring?
Sometimes we see thee on the pleasant morns

Of lingering March, with wreathed crook of gold,

Leading the Ram from out his starry fold,
A leash of sunbeams round his jagged horns!
Sometimes in April, goading up the skies
The Bull, whose neck Apollo's silvery flies
Settle upon, a many-twinkling swarın!

And when May-days are warm,
And drawing to a close,

And Flora goes
With Zephyrus from his palace in the west,
Thou dost upsnatch the Twins from cradled rest,

And strain them to thy breast,

And haste to meet the expectant, bright new-comer, The opulent Queen of Earth, the gay, voluptuous Summer!

What sights! what sounds! what rustic life and mirth!

Housed the long winter from the bitter cold,

Huddling in chimney corner, young and old Come forth and share the gladness of the Earth. The ploughmen whistle as the furrows trail

Behind their glittering shares, a billowy row;
The milkmaid sings a ditty while her pail

Grows full and frothy, and the cattle low;
A pack are baying in the misty wood,
Starting the fox, the jolly huntsmen cheer;

And horns and guns disturb the listening ear,
And startle Echo in her solitude;
The teamster drives his wagon down the lane,
Tearing a broader rut in weeds and sand;

The angler fishes in the shady pool;
And loitering down the road, with cap in hand,
The truant chases butterflies-in vain,
Heedless of bells that call the village lads to school!


Unmuflled now, shorn of thy veil of showers,

Thou tripp'st along the mead with shining hair

Blown back, and scarf out-fluttering on the air, White-handed, strewing the fresh sward with flowers!— The green hills lift their foreheads far away;

But where thy pathway runs, the sod is prest By fleecy lambs, behind the budding spray; And troops of butterflies are hovering round, And the small swallow drops upon the ground

Beside his mate and nest!


Methinks the world is sweeter than of yore,

More fresh and fine, and more exceeding fair; There is a Presence never felt before,

The soul of inspiration everywhere; Incarnate Youth in every idle limb,

My vernal days, my prime returns anew; My trancéd spirit breathes a silent hymn,

My heart is full of dew!


A little month ago, the sky was gray;

Snow tents were pitched along the mountain side,

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