been already observed, to nearly all the inhabitants of Stratford and its neighbourhood; for the excellence of Shakspeare had been in a line of composition familiar to their business and their bosoms; and so mild, so kind, and unassuming were his manners, that it was difficult to decide whether he was more the love or the pride of their hearts.

Dinner was now announced, and at half-past twelve the party at the college sate down in the banqueting room to an elegant and a varied board. The conversation soon took an interesting turn, and among many topics connected with the localities of the place and neighbourhood, that of the fire which had the preceding year threatened the very existence of the town, and had been, of course, productive of incalculable distress, became the subject of discussion. The ravages of this dreadful conflagration, which in less than two hours had consumed fifty-four houses, were still in many places but too apparent, and had forcibly attracted, during his morning's excursion, the notice of Montchensey, who now observed, that he was happy to see the new buildings constructing of materials

which would render them in future less liable to such an accident.

"It is an improvement of most essential consequence to our peace and security," remarked Mr. Combe," for no place has suffered more from the depredations of fire than Stratford. Not more than twenty years ago, twice, on the same day twelvemonth, was it nearly destroyed from the like cause, two hundred dwellinghouses having been consumed on those two days; and yet were they immediately rebuilt of the same perishable materials, and thatched. Awful, however, as was the rage of the devouring element on these memorable days, and much as I was alarmed, being then but a boy of ten years of age, yet was the impression on my mind less fearful and vivid than what, owing to accompanying circumstances, occurred from the conflagration of last July; for my uncle was at that time dying, and such was the fury of the flames, in consequence of the wind setting in full upon the town, that there was long reason to apprehend not a single house would have escaped. My friend Shakspeare, who happened to be with me on a visit of enquiry after my

uncle when the fire first broke out, instantly rushed forth, not only to protect his own family, but, having seen them safe, to assist in protecting others, and was, I may venture to say, instrumental, even at the risk of his own life, in rescuing much valuable property, and in preserving likewise, by his counsel and directions, many houses which would otherwise have fallen a sacrifice to the flames."

It was at this moment, and whilst Shakspeare was expressing the satisfaction he felt from the idea of having been useful to his fellow townsmen on such an occasion, that Dr. Hall, who sate next to Montchensey, took the opportunity of whispering in his ear, that he was apprehensive the exertions which his father-in-law had been induced to make during this dreadful fire, might prove seriously injurious to his health; for though he generally looked well, and thought himself, indeed, free from any dangerous complaint, yet, ever since that disastrous day, he had been subject to transient, but, in his opinion, alarming affections of his breath, especially upon walking more rapidly than usual, or ascending any rising ground. "I confess," he

continued, "I am greatly puzzled about the nature of this disorder, which has never occurred to me before with precisely the same symptoms; but as the attacks, which are not frequent, have hitherto gone off simply and quickly from rest, and seem to leave no traces of derangement behind, I have not thought it prudent to excite any inquietude in his family upon the subject.”* The statement, however, occasioned considerable uneasiness in the breast of Montchensey, who justly deemed the life of Shakspeare peculiarly dear, not only to every individual who knew him, but to the public at large; and he immediately enquired of the Doctor, if he did not think change of air might be of service; for I am in great hopes," he added, "of inducing your father-in-law to visit me this summer in Derbyshire." Here this bye conversation was broken in upon by Sir Thos. Stafford's asking Dr. Hall, who, he understood from Mr. Combe, had attended his uncle to the last, if

*It is highly probable, I think, from the consideration that the bust of Shakspeare on his Stratford monument, and which is said to have been taken from a cast after death, exhibits no signs of emaciation, that the poet died suddenly, or, at least after a very short illness.

he thought the dying moments of his patient had been disturbed by any consciousness of the alarm which surrounded him.

"I believe not,” replied he, "for he had been long sinking from the mere pressure of years; his mental faculties were nearly gone, and he expired the day following, July the 10th, without a struggle, and in the eightieth year of his age."

"I am happy to learn," remarked Lord Carew, who was now only a rare and transient visitor at Clopton-House, his chief residence being in London, "that your uncle, Mr. Combe, disposed of his large property in a manner so satisfactory to his relations, while, at the same time, he so liberally and judiciously remembered the poor."

"His charities, my lord, were not I do assure you," replied Mr. Combe, "confined to his Will; for though my uncle has been exposed to a good deal of bitter sarcasm on account of his supposed over fondness for the accumulation of money, I can venture to affirm, on my own knowledge, that he was during his life-time peculiarly attentive to the distresses of his poor