tating 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 any 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 dreamt all night of Shakespeare, the 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 northwind 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 bye 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 shewn 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 exceed ingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics, with which this, like all celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very match-lock with which Shakespeare shot the deer, on his poaching exploit. 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 lanthorn with which Friar Lawrence 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 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 slow revolving spit, with all the longing of an urchin; or of an evening, listening to the crones and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth church-yard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesoine times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one that 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 my hostess privately assured me, that though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had been new bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of notice of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa, of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter: for though sold, some few years since, to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old chimney corner. I am always easy of faith in such matters, and I am ever willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant, and costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends and local anecdotes of goblins and great men; and would advise all travellers who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to us, whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charms of the reality? there is nothing like resolute good humored credulity in these matters; and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, unluckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in her consanguinity at defiance. From the birth-place of Shakespeare, a few paces brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired; the river runs murmuring at the foot of the 1 running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; it is only in such quiet "bosom scenes" of life that they are to be met with. church-yard, and the elms which grow upon || In the course of my rambles, I met with the grey-headed old sexton, and accompanied him home to get the key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception, that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard from these ancient chro. niclers; but they had nothing new to impart. The long' interval during which Shakespeare's writings lay in comparative neglect, has spread its shadows over his history; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely any thing remains to his biographers, but a scanty handful of con The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters, on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fète, who superintended the arrangements, and who, according to the sexton, was "a short punch man, very lively and bustling," John Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakespeare's mulberry tree, of which he had a years past. His dwelling was a cottage, look-morsel in his pocket for sale; no doubt a Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear To dig the dust enclosed here. Blessed be he who spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones. Just over the grave, in a niche in the wall, is a bust of Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched forehead; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social ing out upon the Avon, and its bordering meadows; and was a picture of that neatness, order and comfort, which pervade the humblest dwelling in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table well rubbed and polished, lay the family bible and prayer book, and the drawer contained the family library, composed of about half a score well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the room, with a bright warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. The fire place, as usual, was wide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jams. In one corner sat the old man's grand-daughter sewing, a pretty blueeyed girl, and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion from childhood. They had played together in infancy; they were now tottering about and gossiping away the evening of life; and in a short time they' will probably be buried together in the neighbouring church-yard. It is not often that we see two streams of existence sovereign quickener of literary conception. I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame, who shows the Shakespeare house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable and inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry tree; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb; the latter having comparatively few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream diverge into different channels, even at the fountain head. We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors of massive oak. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows; and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and which have in them something extremely awful. On a tomb close by, also, is a full length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious memory; on whom he is said to have written a There are monuments ludicrous epitaph. around, but the mind refuses to dwell on any thing that is not connected with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the place; the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings no longer meek and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence: other traces of disposition, by which he was as much charac-him may be false and dubious, but here is palterized among his cotemporaries, as by the vast-pable evidence and absolute certainty. As ness of his genius. The inscription mentions I trod the sounding pavement there was something intense and thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakespeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place; and as I passed through the church-yard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew trees, the only relic that I have ORIGINAL POETRY. : GEORGE THE FOURTH, AND A' THAT. A SONG. TUNE, Whistle o'er the lave o't. BY JOHN MAYNE. King GEORGE the Fourth is coming down O' Scotland's Kings, and a' that: And a' the chieftains o' the North, To welcome him, and a' that! Whole days or e'er he reached the land, Auld Scotland tries to bear the gree, Meantime, wi' mony a bonny sang, Play'd loyal tunes, and a' that: On ilka house, frae street to street, On wings o' peace, and a' that! At length, amid ten thousand cheers, Wi' gilded flags, and a' that; Wi' tears of joy, and a' that! As nearer land the Monarch drew, Saluting him, and a' that; His stately form, his graceful mien, And won our hearts, and a' that! Thick as the leaves in Birnam Wood, Dukes, lords o' state, and a' that; Archers, and troops, wi' banners bright, Await their King, and a' that! Amang your tow'rs, and a' that, Bring love and peace, and a' that. Ah! mony a dowy day has been Ha'e been o'erturn'd since a' that! Yet Scotland, without crack or flaw, Stands fast and firm, and ne'er shall fa', While Virtue, amang great and sma', Adorns her bairns, and a' that! Then cock your bonnets, ilka blade, To Royalty, and a' that; Than GEORGE the fourth, for a' that! But, oh! while guns and cannons roar, And plaudits welcome him on shore, That we maun part, for a' that! Yet fill your bickers till they foam; He'll look on Scotland as his home, And come again, and a' that! SONG. The last gleam of twilight is peeping, They chase from her pillow away, That comes riding the silvery beam. Ye spirits that guard her repose, No. 166. Vol. XXVI SONG [Written for a professional Lady, and adapted to the beautiful air of "Mary's dream."] When sleep forsakes my eyes at morn, STANZAS. The hours are past, in vain I trace The records of each rapt'rous scene. R. When hearts beat fondly to my own, 'Tis o'er the merry hearts are still, The sighs are hush'd, the bright eyes chill. My lyre attempts to lull my rest: 3 N R. FANCY. A FRAGMENT. Fancy, from thee my purest pleasure flows, Dull were the cumb'rous pile that man would rear, If Fancy, friend to Science, were not near. And give the living picture to our eyes, R. Translated from a jeu d'Esprit lately published in Paris, on the Duke of W, appearing in boots at the Duchess of Angoulême's dinner party. A card of invitation came, From Duchess fam'd of Angouleme, His grace to dine inviting; Time swiftly wings his fatal course, Strange thoughts in all creating. His grace had been delaying; FUGITIVE POETRY. MELANCHOLY FATE OF GINEVRA. (From a poem intitled " Italy.") If ever you should come to Modena, (Where among other relics you may see Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one,) Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you-but, before you go, Enter the house-forget it not, I pray youAnd look awhile upon a picture there. 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, She sits, inclining forward as to speak, foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp. And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion, She was an only child-her name Ginevra, |