property in Henley-street, on which were situated the two houses purchased by John Shakespeare for £40 in 1575, is clearly the locality of Shakespeare's youth; and in the fine levied on that occasion, it is described as consisting of "two messuages, two gardens, and two orchards, with their appurtenances."

Shakespeare's father was what would be now called a respectable man: he had been a glover, and became a wool-dealer and farmer, married a woman with some little property, who was a nominal co-heiress of the Arden family;* and at one time was certainly a man of substance, for in 1565 he was an alderman, and high bailiff of Stratford in 1568. In one of these houses he probably lived till his death.

William Shakespeare was here born, it is said, on St. George's day, April 23, 1564, and it is certain was baptised on April 26th, according to the register-book of Stratford. The old font has been removed from the church, and is broken up, but a fragment yet remains in the possession of Mr. Heritage, builder. It may be doubtful, however, whether Shakespeare was actually christened at it, as domestic baptisms were common at that time. The poet was the eldest son of his parents, who had in all seven other children. So, as Mr. Knight remarks, in alluding to Shakespeare's early youth, "when he was five years old, that most precious gift to a loving boy was granted, a sister, who grew up

* Her maiden name was Mary Arden, the youngest daughter of Robert Arden of Wilmecote.

with him. When he was ten years old he had another brother to lead by the hand into the green meadows. Then came another sister, who faded untimely; and when he was grown into youthful strength, a boy of sixteen, another brother was born."

Shakespeare's father died in 1601, and the property in Henley-street then passed to the dramatist, whose sister, Joan Hart, resided in one of the houses until her death. The Hart family remained in possession until 1806, when William Shakespeare Hart sold the houses, &c., to Mr. Thomas Court, from whose family they have now been sold to the united committees of Stratford and London for the benefit of the nation at large. Its original features have been somewhat altered since purchased by the elder Shakespeare, and the two messuages have become three tenements, one of which was long a public house, known by the sign of the Swan and Maidenhead, and latterly faced with brick.

On catching sight of the low but honoured roof from whence came forth the man whose writings were for all time, the general impression certainly is that the dwelling is but an humble one. It must, however, be remembered that the house fell into hands continually becoming poorer, and thus its dimensions were curtailed. Besides this, the property was purchased by Shakespeare's father, and at this time but few houses in country towns exceeded one story in height. In fact, as may be seen from humbler ancient dwellings yet remaining in Stratford, there was usually only an apartment with attic windows above the ground floor. Loftier houses only became general in the sixteenth century. Yet this house, lowly as it seems, is constructed with a ponderosity that will yet resist time's efforts for centuries.

Looking curiously yet reverentially at the old timbered house, with its open butcher's window (for one of the Hart family descended from Joan Shakespeare here carried on the trade of a butcher), we enter. The floor is paved with stones that, characteristically enough, are cut up into a host of splinters and fragments, as if really hacked by a butcher's cleaver. On one side is an ample fire-place, with cozy sitting places on either side; for in those smoky days, with penetrating draughts coming in on all sides, happy was he who was privileged to take the chimney corner. We proceed into the kitchen, lighted by a side window looking into the Swan yard. Here a most enormous beam-doubtless from an oak in the old forest of Arden-supports the mantel. The fire-place is ample enough to roast a sheep, with recesses as usual on either side for the gaffer and his dame, with a wide chimney gaping up to the sky, and ready to pour out a volcano of smoke, as doubtless it often has done, from a pile of crackling wood. If the fire is out now, our feelings sparkling back upon the past, must rekindle it. That Shakespeare himself has stood here before the cheerful blaze, no one can doubt. Perhaps as a boy he may have sat in the corner, feasting his galloping imagination from a spark in the ashes. His father at any rate lived and

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