of Childs the Philadelphian has set his handsome memorial drinking fountain at a meeting of the dusty ways, where man and beast may well appreciate its delights. The Shakespeare Inn has a rambling and picturesque exterior, which the Red Horse quite lacks; and its chambers bear the names of some of

the plays. The old open-timbered Elizabethan house of the Harvard family stands sturdily and cosily across the way in High Street; and there are other shall I say, alleviations? of the somewhat prosaic general character of Stratford, which owes its fame to but one cause, and has little history worth relating of its own. It is also undeniably a show-place; but this charge would condemn Westminster as well. Some one has truly spoken of an omnipresent traffic here in the memory of the immortal spirit who rescued it from obscurity, - a traffic natural and even necessary, but somewhat distracting to the desire to render reverent homage and to concentrate the imagination. There are indeed too many shops and cabmen, and altogether too much information vouchsafed. It may be charged that there are also too many tourists; but I do not think this is true. At

any rate, few of them are English people, and nearly all Americans, who are said, however, to flock in still greater numbers to the scenes in the life of Burns. But these drawbacks cannot be helped, and can easily be avoided, except where they minister, as they often do, to actual needs. If ever there be a spot where the primary call is to "invite your soul," it is Stratford, and, granted the desire and ability to do this, the means are not lacking, and the madding crowd will soon fall away.

They did not trouble us that glorious morning as we bent our first eager steps toward the Church of the Holy Trinity for the daily morning service at ten. The chronological order of the poet's life need go for little here, where, if one is to reap a reward in any way adequate, it must be by baptism into an atmosphere, rather than by solicitude as to scanty and conflicting details. And so, with the invocation of an uplifting and worshipful church service at a greater shrine, we approached that which claims loving tribute from all who would reverence the poet of humanity at the grave of Shakespeare. At the foot of Old Town Street the lofty spire

was before us at the end of the lovely vista of limes which line the broad diagonal walk to the north porch, and among whose branches the rooks were cawing. Few cathedrals in England have a more spacious close about them than this ample and perfectly-kept churchyard, which completely surrounds the church on all sides, and extends to the bank of the Avon, that flows directly behind it. We had thought of the church as rural, perhaps small like Stoke Pogis, and possibly inadequate to Shakespeare's fame. Not so

our delighted eyes met a spacious and dignified fifteenth-century edifice with transepts, one of those comparatively rare instances where the slender, graceful spire, springing from a square battlemented tower, rises from the junction of the four arms of the cross; of which, in this respect, St. John's parish church at Clifton, Staten Island, is a close reproduction. The interior is not less than imposing, and has undergone complete restoration to the Gothic dignity of which it was long robbed by the dismal and senseless makeshifts with which an irreligious and lazy eighteenth-century management walled up and plastered over its noble spaces till

they were quite beyond recognition. Even an untrained eye will at once notice the deflection of the main axis of the nave as it passes into the choir, the latter bending very perceptibly to the north (or left, as one faces it). This occasionally occurs in cathedrals, and is thought to signify the drooping of our Lord's head upon the Cross. In the southwest corner of the nave stands, much mutilated, the antique font at which Shakespeare was baptized, as shown by the neighboring Church of England register, that also attests his burial. The font served baser uses during a century of neglect, and is not now used for baptisms. There are plentiful monuments about; but one does not look for memorials here, save one.

In the absence of the vicar, the simple service was read by the curate, the tiny congregation being mostly in the nave. We were shown to seats in the choir, and it so befell that they were in the north stalls, and close to the altar rail, directly within which lies the plain flag-stone in the pavement which bears the famous curse. To its right lie other slabs across the entire width of the chancel, inscribed to members of Shakespeare's family; and Anne