CHAPTER XI.

IT now remains to notice the few memorials of the Poet which are preserved in different places throughout the town. First there is Mr. James's museum of Shakefperian relics, confifting of various pieces of furniture faid to have been taken from New Place. Then there is the Town Hall, where may be seen a picture of the Poet by Wilfon, idealifed from the bust; but I confess the original is more interesting to me. How could Wilfon tell that Shakespere looked more poetical than the bust represents him to have looked? Then there is an affected picture of Garrick leaning on Shakespere's bust, and looking as if he actually believed the nonsense which people talked, about his rivalling the genius of the Poet himself. Fancy Davy patronifing Shakespere, and thinking that he knew better than the author of "The Tempest" what was suited to the stage! Though Burke and the other members of the club combined to flatter him, sturdy old Samuel Johnfon was much nearer a true eftimation of his merits. The

very fact that he prefumed to alter and adapt Shakespere's plays, is, to my mind, proof positive that, whatever his powers of declamation, he must have been a very little man indeed. Romney's portrait of the Duke of Dorset is also to be seen here, and is well worth looking at. On a screen may be observed ridiculous pictures of the mummery which was acted in the ftreets of Stratford under Garrick's aufpices at the Jubilee in the laft century. It is devoutly to be hoped that the Poet's memory may not be defecrated by a repetition of such folly next Spring. The worst of it is, that on all fuch occafions that refpectable body called, in the language of the gods, "licensed victuallers," and in that of men, "publicans," has generally as influential a voice as it has in the election of members for Marylebone and the Tower Hamlets. Any vulgar fhow, therefore, which will fill the public-houses, will be fure to have many advocates at Stratford.

But the most interesting relic of all, which, as it comes last in the order of the Poet's life, I kept for the last station of my pilgrimage, is the church where his bones repofe. It is, in itself, a noble structure, furrounded by fine trees, and built on the bank of the beautiful Avon, which on one fide bounds the churchyard. As I approached it under an avenue of lime trees I thought how often the Poet had trodden the