more for their physical frames than their descendants in America. We are worn-out, when they are fully matured. Climate has much to do with this, but habit more: An Englishman hardly ever dies. I went down into Hampshire to look after the estate of an old gentleman, whose friends in America thought that he ought to have been dead long ago. On making inquiry, everybody knew him, he had lived so long, and asked me, in return, if he was not the "great cricketer." That is the secret. Manly exercise and constant care had rendered his old age as vigorous as a man in our country would hardly be at forty-five.

We bid London good-bye yesterday morning, and are here in Shakspeare's home, by thy willowy marge-Oh! Avon! Running to Coventry, famous for some of Falstaff's military operations, if I remember rightly, we left the main trunk of the railway and glided into Kenilworth, whose castle Scott has saved from ruin by his incomparable novel; then to Warwick, where the old earls of that name, the "King Makers," in the earliest eras of English history, resided, and where an earl of the same title now lives. We stopped to see its exterior; and taking a fly, ran over a fine road commanding an excellent view of the rolling fields of Avon vale. The harvesting was almost over. Poor women were gleaning the fields, and farmers and their men were getting in their wheat. The Avon is not much larger than one of our creeks. Its banks are low and shaded with willows, which mark its course as it winds through the green meadows, until it passes through Stratford.

Our first visit was to the house where Shakspeare was born; a rude, half-cottage, upon one of the principal streets of the town, easily discernible by its unique and aged appearance. It bears an antique sign "THE IMMORTAL SHAKSPEARE WAS

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A tidy old lady, who takes care of it for the Shakspearean Society, to whom it belongs, welcomed us; and showed us the room where the immortal Bard first caught the light and breath

of life. It is a little room with low ceiling, all scribbled over, black with names, among which is the autograph of Schiller. The name of Walter Scott is also shown, cut by himself upon the glass window.

Not a descendant of the Bard remains. It was enough to have had such offspring as Macbeth, Lear and Othello. His dust reposes in a church of the town, which we reached under a canopy of green trees. The original bust in stones said to have been taken from the Bard himself, is there. There is no question about its being a likeness, not a fancy-piece. It was originally colored and painted, so as to resemble Shakspeare; but Malone, the commentator, had it painted over white, for which meddlesome work he has been greatly censured, and to have punished whom Charles Lamb longed to have been a contemporaneous justice of the peace in Warwickshire. Underneath an old slab lies the body, which has never been removed; mankind kindly heeding the spirit of the inscription, composed by the poet himself;




His family reside in their narrow homes near him. His daughter Susannah, has this quaint inscription upon her slab:

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Right touching and gentle-is it not?

But we must leave these sacred precincts, to wander forth into the green lanes where the youthful poet wandered, and where he developed that faculty divine, by which he swept the realm of song with an all-potent sceptre. Through pleasant ways by thatched cottages, along hill-sides and down vales, we reached the spot where Shakspeare's young heart thrilled and trembled many a time and oft; for near that cottage by the roadside, where the peas and corn now grow within the hedge, he was wont to see his Anne Hatheway. Within lived old John Hatheway, whose beautiful daughter the poet espoused. Imagination could run wild in picturing scenes hereabout, with Shakspeare for the hero; but most, it loves in this rural spot to paint him as the gentle Shakspeare,

"Fancy's child

Warbling his native wood-notes wild."

Nine miles from Warwick are these localities which are so rich in memory. Over a lovely landscape winds the large and shaded road-a landscape, ever fringed with green hedges and yellow with the abundant harvest. The people of this region I liked. They seemed affable and gentle, compared to the ordinary rude and rough people to be met with around London and Windsor. An Englishman generally acts as if he thought it extremely feminine to move out of the road or show a civility. Ladies are to him, apparently, objects upon which he may exhibit his characteristic rudeness. Of course there are exceptions to this; but we have found them rare. In Italy or France we have never known an incivility. But here, from the porters of public places, the drivers of omnibuses, and from the officers of the railroads, we have received a nameless gruffness, which may be accounted manliness, but which is certainly ill-breeding and gross impudence. The policemen are conspicuous exceptions. From them one may learn every direction, with the utmost blandness and good nature. In Turkey, in Greece,

in Italy and France, and especially in Switzerland, we have found our guides and waiters always pervious to good humor, and exceedingly apt at joking and pleasant conversation-ever ready to understand and join heartily in a laugh. Not so in England. There is a sort of pseudo-dignity which renders each good-humored sympathy as much feared as poison. Sam Wellers are rare aves. Honest, credulous, pompous Pickwicks are common. They are ever ready to receive with implicitness the most improbable story, if it is out of their sphere, which consists of an experience in English breakfasts and dinners, and reading the Times. Far better informed about England is our population, than the population of England about America. The ordinary people want to know if we have telegraphs and railroads; and when informed of their extent in our country, receive the information with the amazement and the implicit reliance which a revelation from Heaven would engender. Several times we have been the object of special wonder because we spoke English like one of themselves, and because we were -white!

It is no uncommon subject of merriment among Americans, that even well-educated Englishmen have frequently asked the most unsophisticated questions in relation to our society, its language and customs.

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A Glance at Ireland.

"The grave abound in pleasantries, the dull in repartees and points of wit."


T would be ungracious in the extreme to suffer the fatigues of a voyage from America, and return without a glimpse, at least, of Ireland. We have devoted, therefore, the last ten days of our stay to a circuit which includes Dublin and Belfast, and extends into Scotland.

We awoke at Kingstown, Ireland, this morning, the 24th of August. Hurriedly dressing, we rushed out of the boat, for the Dublin cars. It was raining. Not being perfectly awake, I did not perceive the state of the weather, until some broth of a boy, with a carriage, shouted, 'Sure, and is it the likes of you that will let your leddies walk in the rain?', while another, a porter, suggested to my companion: 'An it's you that's so well dressed, that you will not carry your own portmanteau?' I felt sure that I was in Ireland.

Dublin town is remarkable for nothing, unless it be a fine park, wide straight streets, an elegant custom-house, brick houses, and a monument or so. The shoeless women and tattered children to be seen in the streets bespeak the truth, that Ireland is indeed wedded to poverty. A great many persons from too much zeal in Protestantism, attribute all the misery of Ireland to her peculiar religion. The mischief lies deeper,—in the tenure of the soil. No one can travel through the Catholic countries which we have seen, especially those in Switzerland, and conclude that Catholicism, in and of itself, tends to produce poverty, or that it is not favorable, when left free and pure, uncon

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