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in sickness, and none to soothe—lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and looking anxiously up until he saw her bending over him, when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do everything that the case admitted; and as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. The next Sunday I was at the village church; when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for her son; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty: a black ribbon or so—a faded black handkerchief—and one or two more such humble attempts to express by outward signs that grief which passes show.—When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. Irelated her story to some of the wealthy members of the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighborhood I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends are

never parted.

THE BOARS HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP,

A SHAKESPEAREAN RESEARCH.

A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was a child, that “it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine.” MoTHER BOMBIE.

IT is a pious custom in some Catholic countries to honor the memory of saints by votive lights burned before their pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to molder in the darkness of his little chapel; another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax; the eager zealot, his seven-branched candlestick; and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, in the eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost

smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of
his followers.
In like manner has it fared with the immortal
Shakespeare. Every writer considers it his bounden
duty to light up some portion of his character or
works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion.
The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast
tomes of dissertations; the common herd of editors
send up mists of obscurity from their notes at the
bottom of each page; and every casual scribbler
brings his farthing rush-light of eulogy or research,
to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke.
As I honor all established usages of my brethren
of the quill, I thought it but proper to contribute
my mite of homage to the memory of the illustrious
bard. I was for some time, however, sorely puzzled
in what way I should discharge this duty. I found
myself anticipated in every attempt at a new read-
ing; every doubtful line had been explained a dozen
different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of
elucidation; and as to fine passages they had all been
amply praised by previous admirers: nay, so com-
pletely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with
panegyric by a great German critic, that it was
difficult now to find even a fault that had not been
argued into a beauty.
In this perplexity I was one morning turning over
his pages, when I casually opened upon the comic
scenes of Henry IV., and was in a moment com-
pletely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar's Head
Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes
of humor depicted, and with such force and consist-

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ency are the characters sustained, that they become mingled up in the mind with the facts and personages of real life. To few readers does it occur that these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry roysters ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years since: and if I may be excused such an insensibility to the common ties of human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like me? They have conquered countries of which I do not enjoy an acre; or they have gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf; or they have furnished examples of hair-brained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to follow. But old Jack Falstaff!—kind Jack Falstaff!—sweet Jack Falstaff! has enlarged the boundaries of human en

joyment: he has added vast regions of wit and good

humor, in which the poorest man may revel; and has bequeathed a never-failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and better to the latest posterity. A thought suddenly struck me: “I will make a pilgrimage to Eastcheap,” said I, closing the book, “and see if the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light upon some legendary traces et Dame Quickly and her guests; at any rate, there "ill be a kindred pleasure in treading the halls

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