titude, be permitted to remark, that even in this way I have done enough."

Montchensey was about to express in very strong terms his regret at this determination, when a slender voice at the door, accompanied by a gentle rap, interrupted the conversation, and Shakspeare, starting from his seat, caught his little grandchild in his arms, and, turning to his companion, exclaimed, "It is here, Sir, in the bosom of my family, and aloof from all that may interfere with domestic comfort, and the society of a few old friends whom time has spared me, that I hope to spend the remainder of my days." Then kissing the little Elizabeth, who had been sent to say that dinner was nearly ready, he dismissed the child, and proposed an attendance upon the ladies.

It was, in fact, on the stroke of twelve, for Montchensey, as an invalid, had spent the greater part of the morning in his chamber, and at the period of which we write, this was esteemed a late, and, therefore, a fashionable time for dinner, which in the days of the Queen had been usually taken an hour sooner.

They found Mrs. Shakspeare, Mrs. Hall, Judith Shakspeare, and Helen Montchensey assembled to receive them. They were momentarily expecting the arrival of Dr. Hall. And here we may be allowed the opportunity of inserting a slight sketch of New-Place and its inhabitants, as drawn by the lively pen of Helen Montchensey, in a letter addressed to one of her favourite and earliest companions,

"You will have heard, my beloved Agnes," she writes, "from my father's letter to your uncle, of the accident which has detained us in this place, and of our introduction to New-Place, the residence of our great dramatic bard, William Shakspeare. But as my father's enthusiasm in every thing which personally relates to this incomparable man, has, I well know, from the necessarily brief limits of such a communication, confined his epistle nearly, if not altogether, to a delineation of the features and manners of his kind host, I will now endeavour to complete the picture, and to satisfy your curiosity, by a description both of the poet's house and his family, omitting, of course, every thing you

have already obtained from the letter to your uncle.

"New-Place then, originally built, I understand, in the reign of Henry the Seventh, owes its modern and handsome appearance to its present possessor, who, though he purchased it more than twenty years ago, has only very lately, from his engagements in London, been able to reside in it. It is, with the exception of the College, a mansion belonging to a family of the name of Combe, the best and largest house in Stratford, and is situated in the principal

street.

"A porch, supported by two pillars on a base of three steps, and having its architrave, as masons term this part of a building, decorated with the poet's arms, conducts you to the house, which is now distinguished from most in the town by being fronted entirely of brick, instead of brick and timber, its former state, and possessing the additional ornament of stone coigns. The windows, which are light and large, and what builders call bays in respect of form, are five in number, one over the porch, and two,

ránging one above the other, on each side of it; whilst surmounting the cornice, and occupying the greater part of the front roof, are three gables, or triangular uprights, with a window

in each.

"I am afraid you will laugh, my dear Agnes, at the minuteness of this architectural detail; but you must prepare yourself, I do assure you, in spite of all the ridicule I may incur by the attempt, to endure a still more minute depictment, as well of the interior of the mansion, as of its tenants; for I have caught, I will allow, no small portion of my father's admiration for his poetical friend, and I do verily begin to believe, as he firmly assures me, that however careless the present age may be as to the personal history of the bard, a time will come, when, from the acknowledged superiority of his genius, every the most trifling anecdote concerning him and his connections will be sought after with avidity. I am the more willing to credit and encourage this tone of enthusiasm, as not only does my love for the writings of Shakspeare, which, under the influence of my father, I have imbibed even from my very childhood, induce me to cherish

such an expectation, but I have now the strong additional motive of a personal acquaintance with the poet, to bind the impression on my heart. For I solemnly protest to you, my sweet Agnes, that I do not think a more amiable or benevolent being exists than the author of 'Romeo and Juliet,' a declaration which, as I know how greatly you admire that play, will, I am sure, delight you. In no respect, indeed, does he arrogate to himself any deference or distinction; in fact, he appears to me perfectly unconscious of the magnitude and universality of his own genius; and so cheerful is he in his temper, so utterly void of stiffness and constraint in all he says and does; in one word, so truly and entirely the gentleman, in the best and noblest sense of the term, that I scarcely think it possible, even for the most young and lively, to be much in his company without entertaining an affection for him. You will not be surprised, therefore, to learn, that in this his native town and neighbourhood, he is an object of love and esteem to all classes, to grave and gay, to rich and poor; and that, of course, nine times out of ten, as might be expected from the fascination