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hand for a tiring-room. Here the youthful poet no doubt saw, in 1579 (being then about sixteen), the performance of "my Lord Strange's men,' on the 11th of February, for which five shillings was paid, "at the comanndement of Mr. Bayliffe;" and in the same year the "Countys of Essex plears," for which was awarded the liberal sum of fourteen shillings and sixpence. In the next year the Earl of Derby's players were paid eight shillings and fourpence for their performance. In this hall, too, an entry was made in the Town Books, in 1579, of the election of William Smythe and Richard Courte, to supersede Mr. John Wheeler and the poet's father; "for that Mr. Wheeler doth desyer to be put out of the companye, and Mr. Shaxspere doth not come to the hall when they be warned, nor hath not done of long tyme."

The upper room of this building is the Grammar-school, where, as a grammaticus under the instructions of Thomas Hunt and Thomas Jenkins, the young Shakespeare must have greedily imbibed not only "a little Latin and less Greek," but a great deal more than we wot of, with all our rummaging amongst possible and impossible authors.

The aspect of the church is a pleasant one. The tower has the appearance of great age, and is reported to be coeval with the Norman Conquest; while the mixed Norman and Saxon styles indicate it to have been built upon the site, and with part of the materials of the old Saxon monastery standing in the time of St. Egwin, third bishop of Worcester. Its graveyard is quiet and solemn, with the Avon murmuring a mellow dirge by its side. An avenue of fine limes leads up to the porch; and, once within the grim old walls, the reverie broken in his birth-chamber is resumed. We have exulted in his fame and universality, and now we must be hushed and humbled to learn, even from him, life's last sad and sorrowful lesson. We had deemed him before exhaled around us, like a Narcissus; but every echoing footfall and every monument around proclaims a truth we cannot escape from.

of the first one (that of a fair golden-tressed girl in her grave-clothes) was found drooping against the wall, but seemingly asleep. The glimmer of the torch, however, revealed a small wound she had bitten in her own white shoulder, and the fact that she was dead, and had been buried alive. A dusty, cobwebby room is still shown in Clopton Hall, said to have belonged to this fair-haired but unfortunate Charlotte. However such a legend might have disposed me to have remained in piteous contemplation in this chapel had the sexton told it us, as I did not hear it until afterwards, I passed impatiently onwards to the chancel.

The marble bust of the bard looks from its niche of black marble Corinthian pillars, above the front of the altar-railing, over the remains of himself, his wife, and "wittie Mistress Hall." A pen is in his right hand, and his left rests on a scroll upon which he is supposed to be writing those grand lines of Prospero's:

"The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces."

The countenance is calm and thoughtful, the lips slightly parted, the elevation of the whole above the spectator giving the open brow more height and massiveness. A close-fitting doublet envelopes his broad chest like a cuirass. When coloured, to represent life, the eyes were hazel, the hair and beard of a fine auburn. Sculptured about seven years after his death, it may be regarded as representing him in the prime of life, a few years prior to his decease, although it has not the repose of age about it visible in the Earl of Ellesmere's Chandos picture. As I stood underneath it, I ran over, mentally, all the portraits I had seen of him, and all their phases were traceable in his countenance. There was that of Martin Droeshout's fainous print, with its horse-shoe collar and contemplative cast; also that of Wivell, and the one prefixed to the 1640 edition of the Poems-all seemingly taken one from the other. The head is bald, but more cliff-like than in his bust; the hair is long and lanky, and the upper lids drop lanOur attention is first called to the Clopton guidly over the dreamy eyes. A slight mousmonuments. An uninscribed tomb is supposed tache and imperial adorn the lips; and the to be that of the famous Sir Hugh Clopton; broad and rather massive chin is well thrown and on a second one are the recumbent effigies out by the large and rather awkward-looking of William Clopton, Esq., and Anne his wife. collar. The countenance is that of an amiable Above them, in the wall, are the bas-reliefs of and intelligent youth of about twenty-five; and their children; one or two of them swathed and from this one can easily go back and imagine bound, to denote their death in infancy. A that of the ingenuous school-boy, emerging third monument, beneath an arch, is that of from his father's house, or sitting amongst his George Carew, Earl of Totnes, Master of companions in that long upper-room. The Ordnance in Queen Elizabeth's time, and Joyce, second class of portraits picture him in about his Countess, daughter of William and Anne his thirty-fifth year-I mean the Roubiliac bust Clopton. Over them all is suspended a rusty and the designs taken therefrom. He there apand dinted helmet, and the rotten tattered reproaches nearest the human ideal of manly and mains of some gay banner that once perhaps streamed before the gaze of the warrior-queen herself. There is a legend which records that during the sweating-sickness, in some unknown period, when the Clopton vault was opened to admit a second victim to its virulence, the form

vigorous intelligence. A slight beard curls from his chin; his eyes have lost their languor, and beam softly bright, and his whole aspect is kingly and inspired. The words of Aubrey are upon my tongue: "He was a handsome, wellshap't man"; and we can easily believe the

sequel, that he was "very good company, and of a very ready and smooth witt." The third series of portraits-as the picture of Cornelius Jansen, the Chandos picture, and the one in the possession of Mr. Charles Knight-are much later ones. A sweet serene aspect pervades them all; but, in aiming at repose, the lofty forehead that marked the earlier pictures is lost in the general breadth. Looking upwards to his niche, and passing before me these visions, I seemed to have secured a newer and more human interest in his life and works, and to see him as he moved and mused in that retirement and fellowship with Nature so congenial to his mind, not long ere he lay beneath that heavy

slab.

Of the inscriptions underneath the bust, the Latin one is much to be preferred, and may be roughly translated thus:

"He had the wisdom of Nestor, the wit of Socrates,
and the polish of Virgil.

The earth hides him; the people mourn him;
Olympus has him."

In the parish register I find the entry of the poet's baptism, in the Court-hand of the period :

"1564.

April 26. Gulielmus filius Johannes Shakspere."

This, however, is not the original entry. About 1600, orders were issued for the better preservation of parish registers, which, up to then, had been kept in loose leaves; and as the whole character is in the same hand, up and subsequent to that time, it has evidently been copied from a more ancient one. I did not stay to look at the baptismal entries of his children, or the sorrowful one that records the death of his little son and plain and common-place enough it seemed Hamnet, but passed to that of his own burial

to read

"1616.

April 23. Wm. Shakspere, Gent."

I closed the volume with a sweet sense of pleasure that his closing days were spent in placid ease and rural retirement, with the dignity

The other, however, must be given, although it of well-won honours to surround his noble does no one credit:

"Stay, Passenger! Why goest thou by so fast?
Read, if thou canst, whom envious Death has plast
Within this monument-Shakspeare, with whom
Quick nature dide; whose name doth deck y tomb
Far more than cost; sich all yt he hath writ
Leaves living art but page to save his wit.
Obiit Ano. Doi. 1616, ætatis 63, die 23 Ap.”

brow. I rejoiced, too, as an Englishman, that I could pay him the modest tribute of a passionate pilgrim.

The clouds still shook down upon us their back by Charlecote now impossible), we sought tears, as, emerging from the church (our ramble refreshment in one of the many inns with which Stratford abounds. An eight miles trudge in the drizzling rain and dark might have been enough to have discomfited the most enthusiastic pilgrim; but as the train rattled towards Coventry, I still stood in that humble room and above that sacred dust, and only when the bustle of arrival had shaken me, and Peeping Tom was looking waggishly down upon me from his corner, did I return to surrounding things.

A plain sandstone slab, with the memorable exhortation and curse written across the middle, rests above his remains. The stones of his wife and daughter, beside him, are of slate, with a much primmer and preciser look about them. Beneath the niche, I should also mention, is the door of the carnerie, or charnel-house, into which loose bones were cast, and to the propinquity of which many attribute the poet's curse. This, of course, makes him the selector of his own burial-place. The monument to my "Johnny o'Combe," and the gorgeous chancelwindow, representing scenes in the life of Christ, given expression to its generous nature in the folare passed over with very little interest, and we lowing beautiful sentiment: "Never desert a friend shape our course to the vestry, to write our names. The sexton we find has prepared a when enemies gather round him. When sickness rough index to his book, whereby the names of falls on the heart, when the world is dark and cheerseveral living celebrities are seen at a glance. less, is the time to try a true friend. They who turn An ancient brass-embossed Bible, with its steel from a scene of distress betray their hypocrisy, and altar-chain attached, also lies upon the table. prove that interest moves them. If you have a Its interior is imperfect; but its binding will friend who loves you and studies your interest and stand for centuries to come. An engraved brass-happiness, be sure to sustain him in adversity. Let plate on the cover reads:

"William Wrighte & John Noble,
Churchwardens for ye Borough.
Stephen Borman & Rich. Gibes,
Churchwardens for ye Parish.

Anno Dom. 1695."

A NOBLE SENTIMENT.-Some true heart has

him feel that his former kindness is appreciated, and that his love is not thrown away. Real fidelity may be rare, but it exists in the heart. Who has not seen and felt its powers? They deny its worth who never loved a friend, or laboured to make a friend happy."

This new and extremely beautiful kind of by forming a succession of loops in gold and

SONTAG, OR WOOLLEN HABIT-SHIRT.

MATERIALS-2 ounces of Double Berlin Wool, of any dark colour, and 1 ounce of white ditto. Knitting Needles No. 10.

This very pretty and comfortable habit-shirt the outer edge, in every alternate row, but deis intended to be worn under a mantle or cloak; and as it gives great additional warmth, without making the figure at all clumsy, it has many advantages over shawls and other wraps. I do not know why it has received the name of the lamented cantatrice Sontag, but such is the name by which this sort of garment is generally known.

With the dark wool cast on five stitches, and knit, increasing one stitch at the end of every row, until 80 stitches are on the needles. This is the back. Then knit only half the stitches, the others being left on the needle (which will be found much more convenient than slipping them on a separate one). Still increase one at

crease one at the inner edge, in the intermediate rows, so that 40 remain on the needle, until you have done 70 rows, when cast off loosely. Do the other half the same. Then take up on one needle the stitches round the neck, and along these cast off ends. Knit, with white wool, 10 rows, increasing one at the end of every row. Cast off loosely. Take up the stitches along the outer edge, and do the same, increasing, and joining to the inner border at the ends, and increasing also at each side of the five original stitches, that it may set square. Cast off loosely, and work small spots at intervals with the dark wool. The ends cross over the bosom. AIGUILLETTE.

VILLAGE QUARRELS,

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ETHEL.”

Feuds almost as deadly as that which of yore divided the noble Houses of Montague and Capulet are not, unfortunately, confined either to lordly families or busy cities. All the world over, people seem to have a natural talent for being good haters; and in this same quiet, out-of-the-way village of Mapleton, within my experience, it would be tiresome to reckon up the number of individuals who, for some cause or other (generally a ridiculously trivial one), hate other individuals with an inveterate bitterness that is to me quite puzzling; so perse vering as they are, too, in gradually adding fuel-that is, he succeeded in making her so to the fire of their own dislike. From the | nebula of some petty misunderstanding gradually rises a little world of rancour and ill feeling, which, with fatal rapidity, becomes a settled and determined hatred that nothing short of a miracle can dissolve.

Widow Grant (who, assisted by her daughter, gained her livelihood as a sempstress) lived, and boldly knocked at the little green door. Here he came in contact with the fiery widow, who fairly overwhelmed him with a torrent of abuse, so that it was some time ere he could edge in a single word. Stormy was the confabulation that ensued; but though the farmer gained a great many of what Mrs. Grant called 'pieces of her mind,' and numberless opinions of himself, which were all considerably more candid than complimentary, he also obtained his object furious that he was convinced she would rather die than suffer her child to marry his son. Quite satisfied with his success, the farmer departed, thoroughly and comfortably imbued with the idea that as the mother was such a terrible vixen, and behaved so ill, the daughter could When the Widow Grant quarrelled with Far- not be much better, and William was well rid of mer Atwood it was a sad thing for their respec- such a wife. But he was, as we all are when we tive children; for Letty Grant and William are in a passion, very unjust, not only to poor Atwood had, till their parents' disagreement, Letty, who was meek and yielding as her mother been engaged lovers; and now all that was at was impetuous and obstinate, but to the widow an end of course. Farmer Atwood declared herself. Five years before, when her husband solemnly that if his son dared to marry poor lived, she was an important personage in MapleLetty, he would utterly discard him, and leave ton: she had a handsome house, fine dresses, all his broad acres and broad pieces to the her daughter received instruction from a daily county hospital; and Mrs. Grant, at all hours governess, and she had plenty of money and of the day, and on all occasions, never wearied nothing to do-two advantages which, to women of lecturing her daughter with regard to her of Mrs, Grant's calibre, were indeed inestimable. excessive undutifulness and bad behaviour But when her husband, who was a rich cornin not ceasing to love William Atwood at a factor, died, his affairs were found in great moment's notice. The good woman never con- confusion; and ultimately so little was saved sidered that love, like an acorn, is easily enough out of the wreck for the widow and child, that planted, but once suffer it to grow to perfection, they were compelled to eke out their income by and it is a very difficult matter to root it up taking in needlework, while Letty obtained two again. Letty was a gentle, timid girl, very fond or three pupils among the farmers' daughters, of her mother, and with no firmness or energy to whom she taught all she herself knew. It of character to resist her authority, even when was a dreadful downfall for poor Mrs. Grant, arbitrarily exercised; and so she only wept and and made her temper, naturally somewhat quick, turned pale when she found that her love must more fiery than ever. She imagined that the be given up, that her life's happiness must be farmer slighted her, and she reproached him sacrificed; but she never dreamed of disobe- angrily; he, also irritable, replied in anything dience-she bowed her head in meek submission, but a conciliatory tone; and from this trifling grieved silently, and suffered uncomplainingly. beginning sprung the mighty quarrel which was Not so William. He braved everything-his to mar the happiness of two young people who father's threats and anger-rather than give up really loved each other deeply and truly. The his promised wife. He scorned the idea of farmer ought to have made allowances for the promising to think no more of Letty; he frankly natural sensitiveness to slight, real or fancied, told the infuriated farmer, that if she would which always characterises those who have consent to marry him in his altered circum-"seen better days." As it was, he only felt stances, and become the helpmate not of the wealthy farmer's heir, but of one who had to labour for his living, nothing should prevent his marrying her. Farmer Atwood was wellnigh wild with wrath, and vowed he would make his disobedient son repent; he took his hat and stick, and marched off to the cottage where the

wrathful at the widow's shrewishness to him, and the ingratitude with which she now repaid all his many kindnesses to her the foremost among which was his ever having consented to the marriage of his son and heir with the almost portionless Letty Grant.

People in the village watched the progress of