One would think that better poetry than this might have been produced and sung in Shakspeare's church, and yet, after all, its expansive sentiment harmonized with the spirit of the place. An opportunity was given to contribute to the erection of a new painted window to the edifice, which will be something pleasant to think of hereafter.

While the religious services were progressing, a loud and unearthly shriek rang through the church. Such a singular interruption came from one of the side-aisles, where a poor tired woman had been suddenly seized with a fit. This event created considerable confusion, and it was indeed, for the moment, quite as startling as any of the poet's own weird scenes.

In the heavy shadow of one of the ancient pillars, I noticed a very old man wearing a red vest, leaning on his crutch, with trembling head, bleared eyes, and long, tangled, white locks, seeming to be hardly conscious of what was taking place around him; and here, I thought, truly was Shakspeare's Old Age. And, I could also see, just about me there in the motley crowd composed as they were of the poet's own towns-people, the burly magistrate, the bearded soldier, the young man, or it may be lover, the school-boy, and the nursing babe. It was altogether like reading a leaf of the poet in the same daily and natural light in which it was written.

How strange that after centuries of acquiescence

in the authorship of Shakspeare's plays, a Yankee woman should be the first to challenge his claims. And now another fearless American has taken up the bold assertion. It is almost like attacking the authorship of a gospel. Though the arguments are ingenious the confidence of ages is not easily shaken. The Iliad is believed to have been written by Homer by the settled conviction of the world, founded on internal evidence as well as the testimony of history, although German criticism has exhausted its strength to overthrow the claim of the unity of its authorship. Above all, to add the fame of Shakspeare to that of Lord Bacon, were to "pile Ossa on Pelion." The world would groan under the weight. The testimony and friendship of Ben Jonson outweighs the envious assaults of a fellowplay-writer on him whom he smartly calls "the only Shake-scene in a countrey." That strange and incomprehensible impersonality which has always been noticed in Shakspeare's writings, belongs to the greatness and universality of his mind, not surely to the mere desire to conceal the authorship of the most wonderful works of human genius. If Shakspeare could have written one of his plays, he could have written them all; and his very greatness seems to lift him serenely above doubt, or criticism, or discussion. But this is not the time or place to argue this matter. In what promises to be an exciting passage of arms, I am not now prepared to "shake a spear." Doubtless there will be a host of spears raised to sustain the falling heavens of Shakspeare's bright, immortal fame.

The next day after, I looked from the window of Elizabeth's room in the "Swan Tower" of Kenilworth, over the region of what was once a part of the forest of Arden, the same region that gave the name to Shakspeare's mother, and where he laid the scene of that rich June poem, "As You Like It," — perhaps a poetic tribute to his mother, Mary Arden.

At the Kenilworth railway station, there was gathered a rustic bridal party. The bride wore the invariable white ribbons and white veil, which English etiquette requires of brides high or low. I admired the honest sincerity of the scene, and the modest meekness with which the bride bore the smiles and pleasant remarks of all around. It was a half-triumphal and half-annoying ordeal.

"I waited for the train at Coventry,"

and the "three tall spires" rising from the plain proved that the old town still belonged to the unenchanted present, and is not yet spirited away into fairy land. One is more painfully reminded of this material present by the number of coarse modern liquor-shops that spot and infest this ancient city, as well as all other English cities and towns. In some smaller places, it is said that every fifth house is used for this purpose; and by far the most elegant and ornamental shops in the kingdom are those which bear the staring signs of "Stout," "Wine," "Gin," "Brandy." The light wines of France and the Continent would be preferable to the strong liquors and soddening beers used univers

ally by the common people; but it is quite doubtful whether the English will adopt these light wines to any extent, or, what is better, become soon an entirely temperate people. They will sog on until Mr. Gough, or that more eloquent speaker" Facts," converts them. But intelligent Englishmen are feeling deeply the force of these appalling facts in regard to the wide-spread and terrible ravages of intemperance.

The antique interest of Coventry lies chiefly in the neighborhood of St. Michael's Church, and the more venerable St. Mary's Hall; the first of these, with its towering spire of three hundred and three feet, is inferior only to the great cathedrals. This spire is a beautifully shaped octagon, supported by flying buttresses; it pierces the sky like a wedge. St. Mary's Hall by its side takes us back to the days of the feudal "guilds " and pomps; and it is a familiar fact that Coventry, even to this day, is a marvelous city for shows and pageants. Some of these, it is said, exhibit very odd and ludicrous mixtures of ancient helmets and modern beavers.

The story of "Lady Godiva" meets you everywhere. It is repeated in street statues, in architectural ornaments, and upon shop sign-boards But in these coarse and grotesque popular illustra tions of the story, one cannot recognize the same legend as it shines in the hazy amber light of Tennyson's poetry, the pure and delicate picture of her, who, for the love she bore the poor,

"took the tax away,

And built herself an everlasting name."

CHAPTER II.

LONDON.

· on

LONDON, on the first visit, gave me little pleasure, and I was glad to leave it for the free, sweet, open country. It was overpowering. It was like going into the stifled breath of a furnace-mouth. Life is on so vast a scale, so terribly real, that one has little opportunity to think calmly, or play, or, I had almost said, pray. There is such an endless mass of human life that a man grows insignificant in his own eyes; he loses his individuality; he is inclined to cry, "I am a mere bubble a speck this immense sea of existence! I am worthless and insignificant in the eye of God!" I know this feeling is foolish, especially to a genuine Londoner, than whom no one enjoys life more heartily. An English gentleman, to whom I expressed some such sentiment, remarked that one must be a difficult person to please if he could not live comfortably at the West End of London! A second visit, and agreeable lodgings in clean and handsome St. James' Street, gave me a far more cheerful impression of London life. I was told that many London families are in the habit of renting their houses or apartments in the summer, with the furniture