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the kings faded into shadows; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncer. tain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave; and even the disi tant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchers but a treasury of humiliation; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown and the certainty of oblivion? It is, indeed, the empire of Death; his great shadowy palace; where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection, and will in turn be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. “Our fathers,” says

Sir Thomas Brown, “find their graves in our short
memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried
in our survivors.” History fades into fable; fact
becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the in-
scription molders from the tablet; the statue falls
from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids,
what are they but heaps of sand—and their epitaphs
but characters written in the dust? What is the se-
curity of the tomb or the perpetuity of an embalm-
ment? The remains of Alexander the Great have
been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcopha-
gus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. “The
Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time had
spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim cures
wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams.”*
What then is to insure this pile, which now towers
above me, from sharing the fate of mightier mauso-
leums? The time must come when its gilded vaults,
which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish be-
neath the feet; when, instead of the sound of melo-
dy and praise, the wind shall whistle through the
broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered
tower—when the garish sunbeam shall break into
these gloomy mansions of death; and the ivy twine
round the fallen column; and the fox-glove hang its
blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of
the dead. Thus man passes away; his name perishes
from record and recollection; his history is as a tale
that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.

*Sir Thomas Brown.

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Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream;
The faries by moonlight dance round his green bed,
For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head.



To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide

world which he can truly call his own, there is a mo

mentary feeling of something like independence and

territorial consequence when, after a weary day's

travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into

slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let

the world without go as it may; let kingdoms rise

and fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay

his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker his scepter, and the little parlor of some twelve

feet square his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of

certainty, Snatched from the midst of the uncertain

ties of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly

on a cloudy day; and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoy. ment. “Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?” thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon.

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through my mind as the clock struck midnight from

the tower of the church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an end; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide Book under my arm, as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamed all night of Shakespeare, and Jubilee, and David Garrick. The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we sometimes have in early spring; for it was about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way; the north wind had spent its last gasp; and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft of wool combing. It is a small, mean looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks and conditions, from the prince to the peasant; and present a simple but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature.

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very matchlock, with which Shakespeare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh; the sword also with which he played Hamlet; and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the Tomb! There was an ample supply also of Shakespeare's mulberry tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross, of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line.

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shakespeare's chair. It stands in the chimney-nook of a small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolving spit, with all the longing of an urchin; or of an evening, listening to the crones and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one who visits the house to sit: whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard, I am at a loss to say; I merely mention the fact; and mine hostess Urivately assured me that, though built of solid oak,

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