went into the study and discussed the letter to Dr. Elze, upon which he was then at work, and consulted Plowden and other law works of the Elizabethan period. On Monday, the 24th, I went again to the study and wrote for him. But at eleven o'clock he had a chill, and went to bed-for the last time." Our engraving shows the empty chair just as he left it, the old Elizabethan law books he was consulting as he placed them in the antique rocking-chair, from which he rose, his spectacles lying upon the Elze manuscript. The local physician did not think seriously of his patient. But, on the Saturday following Christmas day, other eminent physicians of Guys Hospital, London, were called in consultation, who, however, like the local practitioner, took a favorable view of the case. But on Monday, January 3d, the end came so suddenly that none but those nearest at hand could be summoned, and this glorious scholar, devoted friend and accomplished gentleman passed away, in the presence of his beloved wife, her mother and sister, and Mr. W. H. Hunt, solicitor and town-clerk of Stratford-upon-Avon, a life-long friend-who happened to be at the Copse, for the holidays, and to whom, by a coincidence, Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps had once said in half seriousness-" when I die I should wish you at my bedside."

He was buried at noon of Wednesday, January 10th, 1888, in the graveyard attached to the ancient Church of All Saints' in the little village of Patcham, a rural suburb of Brighton, at the foot of the South Downs, on the high road to London, that being the parish in which his estate at Hollingbury Copse is situated. The spot selected for the grave stands at the extreme south-eastern corner of the churchyard, overlooking the high road to London, with a background formed of the gentle slopes of the Downs, in summer nearly hidden by the foliage of the plantations of Patcham Place, but clearly visible through the bare trees of that winter time. The church occupies some rising ground slightly removed from the main street of the little village, which, as is well known to Brightonians, forms part of the high road to London, and is somewhat under three miles distant from Brighton. The building, always now to have an increased interest as sanctifying the last resting-place of the most distinguished Shakespearian commentator of the day, consists of a nave and chancel, with a tower of the shape known as "the Sussex spire." The architecture belongs to the Transitional Norman period. Over the chancel arch, which is of the semi-circular type customary in Norman buildings, there was discovered some ten years ago, under a coating of white-wash, a fresco of the Day of Judgment and the Resurrection. One of the figures is the Queen of Heaven, who wears a crown of Norman pattern, fixing the date of the painting as of the twelfth, or at the latest, the thirteenth century: a fitter spot, or one more connected with the antiquity which the dead scholar had so loved in life, could not have been selected.

The funeral cortége left Hollingbury Copse shortly before twelve

o'clock, and reached the church soon after noon. The coffin, borne on an open car, was covered with wreaths of flowers placed there by the Misses Chattaway, who will be remembered by visitors to Stratfordupon-Avon as the custodians of the birth-place of the poet, and the grief of these two ladies, who owed so much to the dead scholar, reached every heart. The remains were received at the gates by the Vicar of Patcham, who preceded the mourners into the church, where the greater portion of the ceremony was proceeded with. The solemn committal of the English Church was pronounced at the graveside, during a shower of rain and hail, which added a last touch to a mournful scene. The grave itself had been hung with ivy from that Hollingbury Copse, from which-bereft of its master who had fled to it to be "far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife"-the glory had forever departed. It still will stand on that spur of hillside, and the ivy will still grow and the radiant sunset skies will still spread their luminous expanse. But the gentle, retiring scholar and gentleman, who, with those skies above him, the glorious breezes of the South Downs giving him renewed life and strength, and the sea lying before him from east to west along the southern line-will walk those hillsides no more forever.

*

AN AFTERNOON AT HOLLINGBURY COPSE.

JULY 15TH, 1887.

AMONG pleasant impressions of charming English fields and kindly English faces, stands out prominently in my memory a visit made to Hollingbury Copse some eighteen months ago.

A letter from the President of the New York Shakespeare Society to Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps, announcing my proposed call upon him at Hollingbury Copse, in some mysterious way procured me a welcome from that hospitable gentleman before it was ever presented at Brighton. Stopping at Stratford to visit Shakespeare's early home, it was a most pleasant surprise to have the little lady then in charge exclaim, upon seeing my name upon the register, that she had a message for me from Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps; he had written expressly to ask her to look out for a Miss R- from America who would of course stop in Stratford, and tell her how welcome she would be at Hollingbury Copse. The old lady shook me warmly by the hand, and, congratulating me solemnly, said that I was indeed to be envied in the prospect of going to that house. She herself often visited there for a few weeks in the springtime and, it was easy to see, looked upon the place as a very paradise on earth.

This quaint and very interesting home is situated about two miles back from the beach at Brighton, the low building quite hidden from the road in the surrounding copse, so that one might easily pass it if not most vigilant. Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps himself, a most hearty, genial and courteous gentleman, and a splendid specimen of the English physique, with his pretty young wife, made me feel much at home in the pleasant low-ceiled drawing-room where we chatted for a half-hour or more, much about America and Americans, in whom both seemed to feel the kindliest interest.

Later when we had drank tea together after the cosey English fashion and feasted on the big luscious strawberries that grow in that Island, we went for a charming walk through the copse, finding our way to the front door through "Dogberry Lane;" for we were in a truly Shakespearian home, where the different rooms of the one-story building (there were only six steps in the house) were connected by rambling corridors, all christened after Shakespearian localities and characters, as "Milford Haven," which served as an entrance hall, while "Wolsey's Walk" led to the study.

The house indeed, Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps explained, was simply a collection of bungalows bought ready-made in London; but, grouped as they were, they made a most comfortable home, and the effect was certainly picturesque, the criss-cross timbers on the outside reminding one of the quaint little Stratford houses, while across one side ran the

I 2

cordial motto: "Come hither, come hither, come hither; here no enemy but winter and rough weather," and over the entrance to the study a second generous welcome: "Open locks, whoever knocks."

Outside there was not the slightest effect at gardening apparent, though possibly that wild luxuriance and beauty, which suggested only the wayward fancy of Nature, was in reality the result of some care and thought. On one side we penetrated the copse, and were soon in a miniature forest, where a tiny stream, so narrow we could step over it anywhere, hurried along amidst mosses and ferns and tumbled over the rocks in innumerable little cascades. Here certainly art had counterfeited nature, for Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps assured us that he had himself turned that little brook into the copse, blocking its way with fallen trees, and rocks and stones, just as we saw it. From the wold a long walk or arbor, formed entirely of white rose-bushes, in full blossom-real English white roses-led to an open meadow at the other side of the house, a meadow somewhat overgrown with rocks, but luxuriant in so-called weeds and wild flowers, brambles and thistles, field daisies and great scarlet poppies. This field I could see was a special pride and joy to its owner, though he admitted it was sometimes severely criticized by an unsympathetic public. A little knoll at one side he showed me where he came each evening to watch the sunset, and declared there were not finer sunsets to be seen from any point in the kingdom.

Last of all, though, and I am sure my kind host felt he had kept the best until the last, he led me to the study; and there, unlocking his strong boxes, brought out his Shakespearian treasures; for we were in "that quaint wigwam on the Sussex Downs," as Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps himself descibes it, "which has the honor of sheltering more record and artistic evidences connected with the personal history of the great dramatist than are to be found in any other of the world's libraries." The rarities consisted of many old documents, framed and under glass for safe keeping; among them, six of those few title deeds, which, with the famous Will, are the only articles in existence known to have really been in Shakespeare's possession and to have been actually handled by him; old play bills, and some deeds bearing the autograph and seal of Sir Thomas Lucy; some very old drawings illustrative of Shakespeare's life; but most precious of all, that early copy of the well-known Droeshout portrait, engraved in the year 1623, from the original plate "before it was altered by an inferior hand into the vitiated form in which it has been so long familiar to the public" -undoubtedly the most authentic portrait of Shakespeare in existence, and the only impression of this plate known to be extant. It was not strange that Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps ranked this as a priceless treasure and guarded it most carefully. He did not bring it out with the other rarities, I remember, but watched me first to see if I really appreciated and enjoyed these, and then, remarking apologetically that he